


To the Moon and Back

by b33x, mysticmilks, Niibeth, SleepingPatterns



Series: To the Moon and Back [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Het, Domestic Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Organized Crime, Resolved Sexual Tension, Russia, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:27:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 63,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22380280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b33x/pseuds/b33x, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticmilks/pseuds/mysticmilks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niibeth/pseuds/Niibeth, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepingPatterns/pseuds/SleepingPatterns
Summary: Rzhavyi is an eighteen year old student at a technical college. Fighting comes as easily to him as breathing, and he lives by a code. Topor is twenty-one and recently discharged from the army. He's a drift racer, and couldn't care less about Rzhavyi's concept of fairness. The only thing they have in common is that they both live in aging apartment blocks in the middle of Russia, and that they are incapable of sharing the courtyard situated between them.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren
Series: To the Moon and Back [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610125
Comments: 231
Kudos: 662





	1. Korytnik

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Почти где луна](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/553012) by KNDRT. 
  * A translation of [Почти где луна](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/560839) by KNDRT. 



> A team of amateur translators have come together to bring a well-known and beloved Russian fic to the English speaking Kylux fandom for the first time.
> 
> Original Author: KNDRT  
> Original Beta: Efah
> 
> Translation Team:  
> MyNickname_is_mysticmilkshake (mysticmilks)  
> b33x  
> cracktheglasses (cormallen)  
> Niibeth  
> SleepingPatterns  
>   
> This story set in Tolyatti, a medium sized city in the Russian Republic in the early 2000s. There is a ton of cultural context and we've put most of it into a separate work (see part two of the series for the appendix).
> 
> All of the characters have been given Russian names that are clever plays on their original names. See the appendix for a full list of all characters and the meaning behind the nicknames.
> 
> TL,DR:  
> Kylo Ren is Renat Solaev. His nickname is Topor, which means "axe."  
> Armitage Hux is Arseny Khakasov. He goes by Rzhavyi, which roughly translates as "Rusty."
> 
> [soundtrack for the fic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2D6cLdmbQtLJHo7SQg9hT3?si=0ZEbJrkyTtqlikYR3tyesg)

  


Outside in the courtyard, a car alarm blared. It had been screeching for the last half hour in a variety of different patterns, each one loud enough to be heard through closed windows. Every now and again it would pause, and long-awaited silence would ring out in the kitchen. Just when it seemed like their living hell had come to an end, the alarm would ring out again. After a blessed moment of silence and the dull, distant slam of a car door, it would repeat itself. It wailed until Rzhavyi swore he could feel it in his teeth.

According to Rzhavyi’s count, this process had already happened seven times. It was now on the eighth.

With every round, his father tried to turn up the maxed out volume on the TV. The voices of the cops in the procedural he was watching rattled the speakers. Rzhavyi's father kept pushing the volume button, but the yellow bar on the screen already indicated one hundred percent and refused to move any further.

"Motherfucker!" His father slammed the remote down on the table. "Rot in hell, you fucking prick."

The alarm cut out. Rzhavyi's dad turned to look out the window. Their view from the first floor was completely blocked by a mud-covered _Gazelle_ truck, but he kept staring as if the force of his hatred was enough to pass through the glass, through the truck bed and the trash bins, reaching all the way to the snowy courtyard to choke the life out of the car's miserable owner. 

"That's that," he said finally, taking a swig from his beer, "I'm fucking sick of it."

Even if his father's telepathic rage _could_ kill the car's owner, it hadn't been what turned off the alarm. Rzhavyi frowned down at his math textbook. Even before the noise, he'd been struggling. He was tired. The racket outside and the procedural on TV weren't helping him through this set of questions. Despite the words on the page being neatly printed in Russian, he couldn't understand a damn thing. He hadn't solved any of the questions, and his notebook was covered in failed attempts that he had scratched out. And there was the car alarm. Again.

He glanced up. His father's face—which had already been rosy from the beer—had turned beet red. Rzhavyi closed his textbook, shoving his notebook between the pages to mark his place.

"I'll go take care of it," Rzhavyi said, standing up and nearly knocking over the pyramid of pots and pans stacked on the floor by the stove. 

The alarm shut off again. The car door slammed. This time though, the quiet didn’t even last seconds.

"Sock him right in the face," his father said. "Make sure he doesn’t forget any time soon."

"Of course."

Rzhavyi groped for his sneakers in the narrow, dark hallway. He pulled on his puffer jacket and sprinted out of the apartment and down the stairs, pulling open the heavy metal front door to the courtyard.

Outside, the sound of the alarm was splitting. Behind a row of dumpsters, he could see the offending car with its blinking headlights. It was a black Desyatka,[1] with blue LED lights glowing underneath it and custom parts mounted on every possible surface. Rzhavyi made straight for it across the courtyard. The freshly fallen snow immediately got into his sneakers, and his feet were wet and cold. He zipped up his jacket, walked around the blaring car, and pulled open the driver's door.

"Hey, asshole!" Rzhavyi rested his forearm on the roof of the car, looking inside.

The guy in the driver's seat was young and huge. He was the size of a fucking moose. He barely fit in the Desyatka. The seat was pushed all the way back, but even so, his knees brushed the steering wheel. Wires were sticking out of a massive hole in the dashboard, and tools were strewn across the passenger seat. Among them were random parts, electrical tape, and the removed paneling. Rzhavyi took an immediate dislike to the wrench and the screwdriver, feeling around in his pocket for his brass knuckles. He met the korytnik's unfriendly frown.[2]

"You're ruining everyone's peace and quiet, dickwad. Cut the alarm on this piece of shit, got it?"

"Yeah?" the korytnik side-eyed him but didn't move. "And if I don't, what then? Who the _fuck_ are you?"

At that moment the alarm started up again, and Rzhavyi almost choked. The nerve of this asshole, ruining any chance that Rzhavyi had of a normal evening without even knowing who he was fucking with. Rzhavyi, on the other hand, knew exactly who this guy was: his father had mentioned that the geezer in apartment fifty-two had keeled over last year, and his grandson had moved in. Rzhavyi vaguely remembered that the old guy had been odd. He'd loomed large in the courtyard, limping across it with a cane. He'd worn a long coat and a leather cap year-round, removing them only in the dead of summer. Even then, he'd never worn short sleeves. Growing up, the older boys had speculated that he had either lost his arms or his legs (or both) in some freak industrial accident. He'd apparently worked at the AvtoVAZ factory his entire life, even after losing his arms. Or legs. Who the fuck cared.

Now his grandson had moved into the apartment on the fifth floor.[3]

Rzhavyi's mother mentioned that he'd just returned from army service. His parents had allowed him to have the apartment, and apparently, this fucking car, with its goddamn lowered suspension. The thing glowed like a Christmas tree and accelerated so loudly that it scared the neighborhood stray cats. While at first it had just blared weird and shitty music, now the car had graduated to flat out screeching.

“Who am I? Who the fuck are _you?_ ” Rzhavyi screamed over the alarm, leaning into the cabin of the car. “I'm Rzhavyi, and you're in my fucking courtyard!”

“Excuse me?”

The korytnik climbed out of the car—with surprising grace, considering his size—and unceremoniously shoved Rzhavyi in the chest. It was a decently strong hit, and Rzhavyi only held his ground because he was still clinging to the door of the car. 

“I don't know you,” the korytnik growled, grabbing Rzhavyi by the jacket collar. “And I'm in my yard, got it?”

The expression on his face was furious, and he didn't look Russian.[4] Black curly hair stuck out from under his blue hat, which was embroidered with a “Lada” logo to match his car.[5]

He frowned, his thick eyebrows drawing together, and then yanked Rzhavyi's collar so hard the fabric almost gave way. 

“Get your fucking hands off me,” Rzhavyi lashed out at the korytnik's wrists, which should have hurt, but the korytnik didn't even blink. “Don’t make me say it again.”

The alarm kept blaring. Somewhere across the courtyard a window swung open, and Rzhavyi recognized the creative swearing of Uncle Valera, who was trying to drown out the noise from his apartment on the third floor.[6]

“It’s broken!” The korytnik screamed in Valera's direction while keeping a firm grip on Rzhavyi's collar. “I’m fixing it now, Christ!”

The korytnik’s mouth twisted in annoyance. It was clear that the noise was getting to him too, but Rzhavyi refused to sympathize. The distraction gave Rzhavyi a chance to assess the situation. He calculated that there was no use in going for the korytnik’s feet. The guy was wearing rugged army boots, which were a distinct advantage over Rzhavyi’s tattered sneakers. His only other options were the knees and the face. Rzhavyi wasn't in a position to strike him in the ribs or the gut.

He chose a multi-pronged attack. He drove a bent knee into the korytnik's leg, pulling his opponent forward by the wrists to headbutt him right in the nose.

The korytnik howled. 

But he didn’t loosen his grip, or grab his face, or move his leg. Rzhavyi hadn’t expected overwhelming success, but this was humiliating. Was this asshole made of iron?

Rzhavyi didn’t have time to strategize. The next second, he found himself lying on his front with his face pressed into the snow, restrained on all sides so that he couldn’t move. He had to yell to Dead for backup. It might not be the cleanest fighting tactic, but maybe Mitaka could sneak up on the korytnik from behind.

“If I see you near my car again, I’ll kill you,” the korytnik growled in his ear, and Rzhavyi grimaced as he felt blood drip down onto his cheek. That meant he’d nailed the bastard in the nose. “Got it, you little shit?”

“Fuck off,” Rzhavyi spoke with difficulty, trying to get out from under the korytnik. He was ashamed; he hadn’t lost a fight like this since the eighth grade. He hoped no was watching. This part of the courtyard was dark, and no one seemed to be taking out their trash. “I don’t give a fuck about your car. Just shut off the alarm, asshole.”

Dirty snow got in his mouth. His teeth were chattering from the cold. Rzhavyi's words were barely comprehensible, even to himself, and it was clear that the korytnik hadn't understood a word he said.

“What are you mumbling, dickhead?”

Rzhavyi put all his strength into his next move. He turned in the wet snow and pulled his right hand out from under the korytnik's knee. He swung at fist at his cheekbone and ear, knocking off the korytnik’s hat. He grabbed the korytnik’s curly, shoulder-length hair and yanked as hard as he could. How had he managed to grow it out when the army shaved everyone bald?

Hair pulling was a girl’s move, but Rzhavyi had always fought dirty. If he needed to, he’d bite without a second thought. Two years earlier, Rzhavyi had bitten through the ear of Baldie from the Shlyuzovoy district. The asshole had needed ten stitches, and it still hadn’t healed right. After that, no one who valued their ears, fingers, or ribs had bothered Rzhavyi again. Rzhavyi could snap the latter as readily as he would break a nose.

But now the korytnik had Rzhavyi in a grappling hold and didn’t seem concerned about the fate of his ears.

Rzhavyi pulled on the korytnik’s hair, grinning wickedly when he saw his opponent's shameful tears; the korytnik pressed his elbow to his throat. Rzhavyi’s vision was going dark and it was impossible to reach his brass knuckles with his free hand. The korytnik slammed Rzhavyi’s wrist into the snow with his knee, and Rzhavyi could only scratch at the pocket of his jacket with numb fingers. He didn’t want to pull the same trick twice, but apparently it was his only option: he could pull the korytnik’s head down towards him and bite his oversized ear. 

Yes. That was exactly what he’d do. 

“Hey, can you hear me?” 

His head was buzzing. The pressure on his throat was gone, but it was still hard to breathe. Fingers touched his neck. 

Rzhavyi opened his eyes. 

With horror, the reality of the situation dawned on him.

He’d passed out. At the crucial moment. When he’d made the move to try and reach the korytnik’s ear. 

“You awake?”

The korytnik let go of his throat. Had he tried to choke him? Or was he feeling for a pulse? 

Rzhavyi was ready to curse him out, to damn his mother and his whole family to hell—including every last grandmother and grandfather—but instead of swearing, he wheezed and coughed. A fucking disgrace.[7]

And how long had he been out? Long enough for the korytnik to understand.

Fuck.

He wiped his lips with a trembling hand, humiliated to see drool and blood come away on his fist. If things hadn’t been so serious, Rzhavyi would’ve laughed at the expression on the korytnik’s long face.

It looked like the asshole was scared. If so, it means Rzhavyi had to leverage it so that the korytnik wouldn’t gossip and tell the entire neighborhood that Rzhavyi had passed out during a fight. 

“What, are you fucking scared?” Rzhavyi turned his head to the side and spat blood into the snow. He licked his coppery teeth with his tongue and stared down the korytnik. “Were you imagining yourself in the slammer? With that hair, you’d be their favorite fuckhole.” 

Rzhavyi laughed hoarsely, waiting for the korytnik to knock him out a second time. He didn’t give a fuck. He now knew whose car this was. He’d bust out the windows and slash the tires to make sure this asshole knew whose rules he was living under. 

But the korytnik didn't hit him. He silently picked up his hat, wet from the snow, and pulled it on his head. Then he rose to his feet and stepped back. 

Rzhavyi fumbled in the snow. His throat ached like someone had taken a sander to it. He was dizzy and both of his wrists ached terribly. Belatedly, he realized that the car alarm had stopped wailing. The Lada’s dome light had gone out, meaning the battery must have died. 

He stumbled to his feet, blinking as the edges of his vision darkened. His brass knuckles slipped out of his pocket and into the snow. Rzhavyi frowned, trying to figure out how to pick them up without turning his back. The korytnik was faster, stomping on the brass knuckles, covering them with his boot. He leaned forward, looking at Rzhavyi with a dangerous expression on his face. 

“Go on, get the fuck out of here,” His voice was so low, that if Rzhavyi had been a dog, his fur would have stood on end. “Without these.” 

Rzhavyi wasn’t ready for a second round. Bile rose in his throat, and he swallowed with a nasty taste in his mouth. As a matter of principle, he wouldn’t back down. 

“Take your foot off it.”

Blood was streaming from the korytnik’s nose. It flowed down over his fleshy lips—so large they were almost indecent. Rzhavyi shook his head. The korytnik continued to frown at him. He seemed in no hurry to lift his foot off the brass knuckles. He stared at Rzhavyi with that same attentive, heavy gaze. It was unnerving. Rzhavyi felt uncomfortable. 

Rzhavyi was becoming frustrated with himself. That bald guy from Shlyuzovoy was almost as huge as the korytnik, and older, but Rzhavyi hadn’t been afraid. What was wrong with him? 

“Do you not have enough going on?” He asked, clenching his hands into fists and sniffing. “You think I don’t have friends? If you don’t give it back, we’ll find you tomorrow. You’ll beg us to let you go.”

“What, are you scared?” the korytnik retorted, smiling unkindly. “Sure, take it. If you can find it.”

Rzhavyi didn’t have time to stop him. The korytnik snatched the brass knuckles from under the sole of his shoe, before straightening up and launched them over the garages. Pigeons took flight. The brass knuckles skittered across a rooftop and dropped. Firmly lodged somewhere far away.

It would have been humiliating to go looking for them at night with a flashlight. To just turn away and leave was just as bad. Rzhavyi exhaled, bowing his head. He was just about to knock the korytnik down, pin him to the side of the car, and—if he was lucky—shove his head into the car, when the korytnik suddenly waved his hand over his head. He looked behind Rzhavyi, and loudly shouted: 

“Yo! Damirian! Hey! I need a jump start, help a buddy out!”

Rzhavyi grimaced. Rzhavyi could yell for his friends to come help now, but they would need time to get here. Fucking Damirian was right there. 

“It’s your lucky day,” Rzhavyi said, bitterly spitting pink saliva into the snow.

The korytnik wiped at the blood under his nose, resting his thigh against the car. He smiled brazenly at Rzhavyi in response. 

Rzhavyi wanted to warn him to cherish those teeth while he had them, but he didn't. Turning around, he walked back across the courtyard, frowning at Damirian as he passed him. The korytnik hadn’t even lived in his grandfather’s apartment for three months, and he’d had already managed to get in good with the local shopkeeper. Damirian had a kiosk [8] on the corner of Sverdlov and Revolution Street, and lived in one of the apartment buildings here. He never sold booze to minors—his employees always asked to see ID, the fucking assholes. Damirian himself seemed to be no older than twenty-five, but he had the audacity to act as if he’d forgotten what it was like to be eighteen and in search of a drink. Maybe he didn't drink. Armenians—weren’t they Muslims or something? And what about the korytnik? His grandfather looked Russian, but he looked like he was the product of Tatar-Mongol rule somewhere way back. 

What had they said in that book they were forced to read at school? "They ate dried horse meat that they kept under their saddles." Rzhavyi didn’t know why he still remembered that line. It was funny. He pushed open the door to his building—the entry system hadn’t worked for a long time, and no one was going to repair it. He smiled and then winced. His split lip had hardened into a scab, his brass knuckles lay somewhere in the garbage, and his unfinished math homework waited for him at home. Tomorrow he had to pass a test at the _sharag_[9] and work a shift at the garage. 

“Well, look at you.” In the kitchen, his father slid a bottle of beer in front of Rzhavyi and slapped his back with a heavy palm. “Hey, mother! We raised a man after all!”

Rzhavyi didn’t mention the fact that he had lost the fight. He wasn’t looking for another beating from his dad. He leaned on the cold neck of the bottle, looking at the notebook on the table in front of him—there was no way he’d finish his work by tomorrow. 

“Here.” His mother shoved a cloth under his nose, soaked in peroxide. “I just wiped the table. And don't touch it with your dirty hands, you still haven’t had your tetanus shot.”

“He’ll be fine. It’s nothing,” his father waved a hand at her and leaned back against the wall on his creaking stool. “Our people were never afraid of dirt.” [10]

Rzhavyi nonetheless pressed the cloth to his lip. It stung. Bruises were blossoming across his wrists. He’d ended up with his mother's skin, thin and pale. He even had her figure—not his father’s wide shoulders and rough hands. Rzhavyi had gotten his height, and the same red hair—that's all that Rzhavyi had inherited from his father. 

“Nice,” grumbled his dad. “It’s quiet!”

Rzhavyi nodded. 

The next second, the car alarm wailed hysterically from the courtyard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Art for the original fic:_   
>  [Kylo and Hux by st-hedge](https://st-hedge.tumblr.com/post/182203174006/who-would-have-ever-thought-i-would-do-something)
> 
> _Footnotes:_  
>   
>  1\. _Desyatka_ : it means Model Ten / Lada 110 / VAZ-2110. It's a compact car that was built by the Russian automaker AvtoVAZ from 1995 to 2009. [Pictures and more information here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lada_110) [ return to text ]
> 
>   
> 2\. _korytnik_ slang for a proud owner of a Russian-made car. It can be read as _car owner_ [ return to text ]
> 
> 3\. _apartment_ : By Russian standards at the time, this would have been considered an average, standard size apartment; by American contemporary standards it might be called a one-room "efficiency apartment."[ return to text ]
> 
>   
> 4\. _He didn't look Russian._ Topor is a Russian citizen, born and raised, but Rzhavyi suspects that his "ethnic origins" might be elsewhere. This is typical contemporary xenophobia. There is a perceived divide between Russian and non-Russian characteristics, especially in regards to Russian Jewry and anti-Semitism.[ return to text ]
> 
> 5\. _embroidered with a “Lada” logo to match his car._ Sweet, he's wearing his car's merch. Lada is a make of car that you can still buy new across Eastern Europe, but they are wildly unpopular outside of former Soviet states. They are not terribly good cars, but the sentimental value is high. You can visit President Putin's personal blog to read him reminisce about the first time he drove one.[ return to text ]
> 
> 6\. _Uncle Valera_ Not necessarily a blood relative. "Uncle" is a common form of address for an older man, whom you know and respect.[ return to text ]
> 
> 7\. The term Rzhavyi uses is _"Zashkvar"_ It generally, means shame, but has its origins in homophobic prison slang. See the story notes (part 2 of this series) for more information.[ return to text ]
> 
> 8\. _Damirian (Poe's) kiosk_ A very important place, selling alcohol, cigarettes, lighters, batteries, cheap snacks. Similar to corner store. [Some photos as an example ](https://cs4.pikabu.ru/post_img/2016/06/17/11/14661881511825228.jpg)[ return to text ]  
>    
> 9\. _Sharag_ A slang term for a technical school[ return to text ]
> 
> 10\. _“Our people were never afraid of dirt.”_ Rzhavyi's father uses this display of masculinity to berate Rzhavyi and his mother for cleaning a wound with antiseptic.[ return to text ]


	2. Gingerbread

_Gingerbread or Pryanik - traditional sweet, spicy and soft Russian cookies. They can be bought in every store_  


The korytnik had a nickname: Topor. 

Rzhavyi found out about it one morning. He was standing at the bus stop. The previous evening the owner of the shop where Rzhavyi repaired electronics called and told him they had a lot of work for the following day. In addition, he had taken on a quick side job for a buddy - and it was a rush job. The school was on the back burner again.

It was cold at the bus stop. The fucking bus never came, and Rzhavyi was freezing. At the end of the month, it had hit a fierce minus fifteen. The warm jacket that Rzhavyi pulled from the top shelf of the wardrobe turned out to be too short in the sleeves; the zipper jammed halfway up, and the wind blew directly into the throat and chest. Rzhavyi was warming one hand in his pocket, the other held the collar shut; it was necessary, probably, to wear a hat — he almost couldn’t feel his ears. He shifted from one foot to the other, checked his phone, where time moved very slowly. He was the only person who dared to brave this cold at five in the morning to go somewhere.

He wanted to sleep. Very much.

Rzhavyi rubbed his eyes with his fist, leaning against the iron support of the bus stop - the glass panels had been broken the previous week. It’d be great to find whoever did that and beat the shit out of them. Were they from the eleventh quarter? Or from the third?

Staring into space, Rzhavyi thought that this wouldn't work. This jacket wasn’t protecting him from the wind - it meant he’d need to go to the market and buy a new one. Maybe even shoes - his feet were thoroughly frozen in his worn socks and sneakers. He went so deep into these reflections that he even flinched when a screech of brakes rang out from the side of the intersection.

Rzhavyi turned his head.

A black  _ Desyatka  _ flew from PrimorskyBlvd. to Razin Ave. - sideways. Slipped on the icy asphalt, and Rzhavyi expected to see it crash into a pole at the corner or ram the Nissan parked on the sidewalk. But this didn't happen. The  _ Desyatka _ spun in the middle of the road and stopped with the nose pointed almost in the opposite direction: The ice hadn’t been cleared off the asphalt in a while. The wheels of the car were skidding, the engine was revving furiously, and when Rzhavyi was convinced that there was a complete dipshit behind the wheel of this car, the car roared once more and made a complete turn around, entered the turn. 

Also sideways. 

Rzhavyi jumped to the side, almost slipping on the ice. The car was headed straight for the bus stop, and then he saw everything as in slow-motion recording — here the wheels crashed into the curb, the car jumped up, the brakes squealed, the rear axle led. With difficulty Rzhavyi suppressed the desire to climb up on the steps of the pharmacy, away from this asshole - but now the car had slowed down, he wasn’t in its trajectory, and therefore he remained in place. 

The car stalled out a couple of steps from the bus stop. The bumper gently tapped a garbage can. 

The can tipped over. 

The license plate fell off the right bolt and hung, skewed, on the left. Rzhavyi recognized it. He’d had a hunch, but now he knew for sure. In the car sat the korytnik. 

He didn't approach immediately. He waited until the door opened and the korytnik got out. 

“Well, fuck.” The korytnik squatted in front of the bumper.

He groped on the asphalt under the hood, but didn’t find a torn bolt. He held the plate in place on the bumper in annoyance - of course, it fell back down as soon as he let go - and began to unscrew the rest of the mounting bracket. 

“Did you forget a piece?” Rzhavyi said, and came up behind him. The korytnik was in a light windbreaker - not cold in the warm cabin of the car, - which stretched tightly across his shoulders, and this time without a cap. Fuck, he was so huge.

“And what the hell are you doing here?” The korytnik raised his head and tucked his hair behind his ear, falling into his face. “Fuck off.”

Sticking a bolt into his jacket pocket, he removed the number and rose to his feet. What a massive beast - Rzhavyi himself was not small, but this asshole must be 190cm tall, if not more. 

“Listen, Vasya[1] ,” Rzhavyi sniffed and wiped clean snot away with his fist. “You don't tell me what to do.” 

“My name’s not Vasya,” the korytnik roared rudely. “Do you have an extra set of brass knuckles? Or did you bring me something else? Come on, give it up before I take it myself.”

Rzhavyi gritted his teeth. He’d sent Dead[2] on the search for the brass knuckles behind the garages - he was busy for a couple of hours, raking through garbage, but managed to fish them out. He’d waited with Dead near the entrance of the korytnik’s house until one o'clock, but he never appeared. The car also disappeared. Had he shit himself and taken off, or what? Rzhavyi would like to think so, but the korytnik didn’t look like a pants-pissing coward, and Rzhavyi hadn’t promised to tear him to pieces. The car hadn't appeared in the courtyard the next day or the weekend either; Dead reported that he, too, never caught a glimpse of the korytnik. 

“You haven't paid me back for those brass knuckles yet.” Rzhavyi straightened and leaned forward. “When you take off, leave everything in place, like it was before you came, understand?”

“What are you doing here? Did you take a janitor job? Keeping all the trash in order?” Korytnik squinted at the overturned trash bin, from which beer bottles and crumpled bags spattered with shawarma sauce fell out onto the asphalt, and smiled broadly. “Well, if you need to, you can pick it up”

Rzhavyi couldn’t tolerate being spoken to like this. Fighting in the morning was a fucking bad idea, but the korytnik was so provoking. Rzhavyi stepped toward him, clenching his fists, prepared to beat him if he didn't come to his senses. 

“Hey Hey!” Korytnik recoiled, put the number on the hood and raised his palms up. “Chill out. I'll put your trashcan back.”

Word?

A bus pulled up to the stop, straining. Stopped obliquely, because the car was hanging out into the road; the bus driver honked a couple of times in aggravation, but idled after that. 

Korytnik frowned.

“Wor. Fuck! Just leave me the fuck alone.”

“Watch your damn mouth.”

Rzhavyi didn't wait for answers. He turned around and went to the bus, and already on the footboard he heard the korytnik shouting after him.

“And my name’s not fucking Vasya! I am Topor!”

Rzhavyi didn't turn around. He climbed into the empty bus and sat in the ragged seat in the back row. At the bus stop, the korytnik righted the toppled trash bin[3] , but failed to put it back in place - the supports were bent, and the whole structure collapsed on its side. For a while, while the bus was slowly picking up speed, Rzhavyi watched through the bus window as he struggled with the iron bucket, and then, when he couldn’t see anymore, watched the passing landscape. Dirty snowdrifts and shop signs floated by. Rzhavyi leaned his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes, feeling a heavy sleep. 

So, Topor.

Rzhavyi hadn’t thought about the name of the korytnik, but somehow he hadn’t expected him to have a nickname.

“Garages,” the driver croaked hoarsely over the speakerphone. “Next stop - ‘Energeticheskaya[4] .’”

Rzhavyi walked half a kilometer more, pulling the collar of his jacket up to his ears. Sticky, wet snow hit his face; and Rzhavyi once again calculated how short he was to buying a car. At least until he could afford a used econobox with a rusted-out floor pan. Fix it up in the shop next door, and it will be almost new, right? Even so, he was short at least half. 

Sighing, Rzhavyi thrust the key into the lock on the overhead metal garage door and turned it twice. A breath of warmth and the chemical smell of plastic wafted out of the open box. Garages over on Officerska[5] were built in the nineties - God knows why. There hadn’t been as many cars back then, and the owners either went bankrupt, or sold out and fled the country, or they were shot. Buildings were turned into workshops and offices - well, more or less, offices. Across the road from the office where Rzhavyi worked, the stolen cars were dismantled, and they ran bootleg vodka through the two buildings[6]. Rzhavyi didn’t doubt that half of the mobile phones that he was reflashing were stolen, but they paid two or even three times more than in clean services. Three years ago, at fifteen, Rzhavyi had repaired computers - pasted up an ad in his area and went on calls. It was an easy job to reinstall the operating system, clean it of viruses, go out and get a new video card instead of a burned one. He even managed to save some money - a trifle, of course, but for a schoolboy it had been enough. 

It had been annoying only when some woman about forty turned out to be a client - he had one such in the Old City, on Leningradskaya Street. She lived in a Stalinka[7]. in a building decorated with monograms and gold and called Rzhavyi in once a month for no good reason. The last time he came to her, all that needed to be done was to connect the plasma to the video recorder, but he had been stuck for more than an hour, because she had invented that her laptop had picked up the worms. 

This chick was beautiful and, in general, not at all old. While Rzhavyi launched the anti-virus for the tenth time and manually deleted the broken tails of files that the program didn't find, she sat opposite on a light-beige sofa, stretching her legs. In a short skirt and low cut top, her boobs almost falling out. 

And when she returned from the kitchen and casually put a bottle and two wine glasses in front of him, Rzhavyi realized what she wanted. He wasn’t a fool. 

“Well, why are you frozen?” asked the woman. He sat down next to her and put a palm on his knee — soft, with round fingers and a red manicure — and for some reason Rzhavyi remembered his mother. “Open the bottle.”

His throat was dry. Rzhavyi looked back on this episode many times. He thought that any other guy in his place would’ve come in his pants - just from looking at nice tits in a tight bra and a manicured hand stroking his leg. And he didn’t even have a hard-on. He was ashamed of himself that he didn't fuck this persistent woman, but instead removed her hand from his hip and rose from the sofa. 

“I don't drink wine,” he’d replied. “Thanks for the offer. And everything is fine with the computer. ” 

She’d looked at him strangely. Whether surprised, or unhappy, Rzhavyi didn't understand. He tucked his sweaty palms into the pockets of his pants and left the living room, put on his sneakers, and reached for the door when he heard a woman’s voice. 

“I wouldn’t turn down the wine if I were you.”

Rzhavyi didn't answer her. He’d run down the stairs to the first floor and came to his senses only at the next entrance, ordered himself to calm down, slowed his steps, squeezing his fists in his pockets until his nails bit painfully into his palms. 

Pictures spun before his eyes: he was fourteen, he’d tried beer for the first time and made out with a girl from the company, it was on a staircase that smelled like piss. Garbage, that someone hadn’t thrown into a garbage can, was cracking under his feet; he was six, and he sat in his room, locked in from the outside, hearing the ugly and terrible things happening behind the wall; he was ten, his parents were yelling at each other again, and then his father shoved him by the collar out of the apartment. Rzhavyi then still not at all Rzhavyi, he sat on a bench in the courtyard, peeling his cuticles from his nails and his mother comes with a fresh bruise on her face, grabs his arm painfully and says he should go home to eat. 

That fucking shit, shit, shit. 

Rzhavyi drank a good amount of beer when he returned to his area after a story with the woman from Leningradskaya. He forgot her words about wine, and after a couple of days, when he arrived at the call’s job site, two bald enforcers grabbed him at the entrance to the house, put him in a car and took him out by the train tracks. They didn't say anything to him, they kicked him, sighting, and Rzhavyi—no, he wasn’t Rzhavyi yeț—he tried to cover his stomach with his hands, chest or face. It hurt so much that he couldn’t even scream, just heard a voice over his head, “Hey, lay off him before you kill him.” He was turned on his back, one of the enforcers bent over him, spat into his face and finally hit him in the kidneys. 

Rzhavyi woke up in the middle of the night. He didn't remember when he got to the house and what happened afterwards - just how his father yelled at his mother, at him, and at the doctors in the hospital. 

“Well, I guess you didn’t even try to fight back,” Pops said to him the next day. “To whom just went like that. You should’ve been born a girl, I would have turned your ass out by now, and been done with the whole business.”

Rzhavyi told him that he couldn't have taken them. That there were two of them, and that they put him in a car, but his father didn't believe it. 

“Who the fuck needed you so much that they sent a car for you?” Father's voice was angry, and Rzhavyi turned his head and didn't look at him, because it was more painful than getting shoes in the ribs. “You’re shitting me. Beat up in the next yard over - and would have admitted it. You're a disgrace. Go ahead and cry, you pussy. ” 

When Rzhavyi was discharged from the hospital, he stopped doing computer repair calls. He drove only once to the garages, to the box, where he always bought hardware - his own computer didn't have enough memory, and it was necessary to get a couple of RAM sticks. Rzhavyi laid out his last money for the RAM; The box owner asked where he was missing, and then, wrapping the sticks in a bag, offered him some jobs for his buddy. 

And Rzhavyi agreed. 

And then, a year later, he ceased to be called his name. It wasn’t serious, according to the notions of the boys from the garages, and it was they who invented that kind of streetname - Rzhavyi. Rusted. Quite sinister. Rzhavyi even liked it himself. 

The boys took him to the beefs, and he learned to talk street slang and fight. He grew into the skin of Rzhavyi, who’d give anyone a beating they wouldn’t forget, for the oblique glance and careless word; someone told his father the story of the barely gnawed ear of the bald guy from Shlyuzovoy neighborhood, and it was the first time when Rzhavyi heard from him a short "Well done son," and not swearing and insults. 

Then there was this fucking korytnik, who showed up in the courtyard as if he belonged there, and apparently had never heard of Rzhavyi. Well, he’d hear. 

Wiping his nose with his sleeve, Rzhavyi turned on the lights in the garage. A box of mobiles was waiting for him on the table. He hadn’t had time to disassemble them yesterday; if he worked quickly, he’d manage by the end of the day. After that it he’d make it to his side job.

Rzhavyi hung his jacket on the hook on the door, clicked the button on the electric kettle and found a Rollton instant noodle cup in the closet. He was still cold, and in addition he wanted to devour; the box, where they baked and sold belyashi and shawarma[8] , opened only at nine. 

The "Rollton" cup ramyeon came out rich. Rzhavyi poured the whole seasoning bag into the container, poured oil on top and sat in the pressed-down chair littered with old jackets. The noodles burned his mouth, but he bit into it, sniffing when it became completely unbearable, and washed down the soup with equally hot coffee from a tin mug. 

By nine he finished the job. He popped over to his side gig: the owner’s buddies, who looked like mobsters, had a fried hard drive with something important on it, and they couldn’t lose the data. Rzhavyi rummaged through the broken file system, ran a couple of scripts, but the problem was clearly deeper. 

“I’ll have to take it back to the office,” said Rzhavyi. “I'll figure it out there.”

The lead guy - ugly, all kind of faded and twitchy, looked into his eyes for a long time. Rzhavyi didn't look away. It was clear that the man didn't really trust him and was torn about the decision. 

“I can't do more here. We need a normal computer, this one is weak,” Rzhavyi nodded at his laptop, which he took with him on job calls. “It doesn’t matter to me where I do repairs, but I'm not taking desktop with me.”

“Okay.” The brother's eyelid twitched. “We agree. Tomorrow.”

Rzhavyi shook his hand. The hand was unpleasant - cold and wet. Rzhavyi wiped his hand on his pants when he went outside, nodded to the grim enforcers that propped up the walls of the porch, and moved to the side of the stop. By nightfall, the snow had stopped falling, but it wasn’t all raked up, and it was inconvenient to walk. He needed a car all the same. If he managed to restore the hard drive, he’d be paid a lot. He needed to save a little more, and then no more catching the fucking bus. 

Rzhavyi arrived home already after midnight. Dead, as agreed, left him a bat under the iron awning of a boarded up window to the basement; it was quiet in the courtyard, only the cats were scrounging and screaming in the trash bins.

Topor’s car was parked in its spot. 

Rzhavyi took down the driver’s side mirror with one precise, sharp blow. The alarm went off so loud, that the cats jumped out of the trash; there wasn’t much time left. He walked around the Desyatka in front and swung again - the mirror element flew out into the snow, and the box was hanging on by the wires - and, yanking on it, he took out the the passenger side window.

A window opened somewhere in the house. Someone started swearing from there. 

Rzhavyi shoved into the car’s cabin. He ripped out the radio tape deck and put it under his jacket, stowed the bat there and, looking around, slipped away through a dark playground into a neighboring courtyard. 

He would like to look at Topor’s face when he sees his car. 

But Rzhavyi wasn’t going to give himself away. The korytnik would sure as shit instantly know who hit his car; he didn't want to meet Topor in hot blood. Rzhavyi offloaded the tapedeck and bat on Dead - he’d been waiting behind the transformer box. 

When he returned to their yard, there was a light in the kitchen of their apartment. Topor’s car alarm had stopped, but there was no one near it. Rzhavyi looked around: clear at the entrance, behind the cars, and along the house, too. His mother opened the door - was she waiting in the hallway? He didn’t even have time to raise his hand to the doorbell. The father never showed up at home, which means he was drinking with someone again. 

“Why don't you sleep?” Rzhavyi asked his mother, shoving dirty sneakers under the stool. 

“I was sleeping,” she replied. “The doorbell rang.”

Something was wrong. Rzhavyi looked at his mother more closely - no, everything seemed to be in order, only her hair was combed into a ponytail, and she was wearing a decent blouse and skirt, not her usual bathrobe[9]. Why would she be dressed like that now? 

“Renat is there in the kitchen.” Mother yawned, blinking sleepily. “He said that he would wait on the stairs, but I let him come in. He looks better than you, by the way. Decent, or what?”

“What?” Rzhavyi threw his jacket on a hanger and moved his mother out of the way with his hand. “Who the fuck is Renat?”

The kitchen in Rzhavyi's apartment was directly opposite the exit from the hallway. And in it, at the table, barely fitting on a stool, the korytnik sat. He sat and chewed mint gingerbread, sipping tea. 

Rzhavyi stopped in the doorway. How did the korytnik know exactly where he lived? Had he followed him? Or learned it from someone? 

“Well, why are you stuck?” Mother slammed her hand on his shoulder blade. “Come in, finish the tea and go where you were going.”

Rzhavyi gritted his teeth - any harder, and they would have cracked. 

Topor's gaze was unkind. He pressed a cup to his lips, which looked like a toy in his hands, and he sipped noisily without taking his dark eyes from Rzhavyi. 

“Delicious gingerbread,” the  korytnik rang out. “Can I take one with me?” 

“Sure, take it all.”

Mother waved her hand, not looking. She sat in the front room in the armchair in front of the TV to watch some chick show with confrontations and weddings. 

“Thank you!” Topor shouted it louder to be heard over the tv, and then looked at Rzhavyi. “Do you need a widdle gingerbread?” he teased.

“Take it.” Rzhavyi was almost shaking, but he wasn’t showing it. “Let's go to the yard.”

Korytnik grabbed some gingerbread from the package. He rose to his feet, blocking everything in the kitchen at once - he fit into the doorway, actually, like a door. The height was so close.

Rzhavyi fell back at the entrance of the room, freeing the way so as not to expose his back to the korytnik. Topor loudly said goodbye to his mother and went out into the stairwell, slamming the door. Rzhavyi followed. 

“What the fuck did you show up here for without an invitation?” 

He asked this when Topor stopped at the door on the first floor, and the korytnik sharply turned towards him, his hand shot out and he twisted Rzhavyi’s right arm until it hurt. 

“Don’t take me for a fool,” the korytnik pulled him in, so that they were almost nose to nose. “What should I do with you, eh? Break your fingers? Or your hands entirely?”

“I warned you,” Rzhavyi dodged, drove under his ribs and bounced to the side, wriggling out of his hands and in the process of flipping the korytnik his fist into his shoulder. “Say thank you for not having your face beaten.”

“Thanks, fuck.” 

Fighting on a narrow spot between the door and the stairs was uncomfortable. Rzhavyi kicked the lip of the korytnik, stumbled, almost plowed up the stairs and tripped his foot; Topor crashed to his knees, but Rzhavyi still didn't have time to get up - the korytnik hooked him on the sneaker, and Rzhavyi slammed back, counted the steps with his ribs and leaned on the korytnik from above, crushing him under. 

In this position, he didn’t linger for a while. He only managed to catch his breath, crushing the korytnik with everything that he had: knees, hands, shoulders - and Topor immediately knocked him off onto a wooden internal door, which opened with a crash and a ring of glass.

“Jerk,” The voice of Topor was hoarse, angry, and against the heavy, hard, seemingly cast from concrete body, which pressed him to the tile floor, Rzhavyi couldn't do anything. “Here, you fuck. You wanted gingerbread? Fucking eat it.”

Topor shoved a wad of gingerbread in Rzhavyi’s mouth and crushed it on top with his palm, not letting him spit it out. Gingerbread crumbled, cracked between his teeth, Rzhavyi bit his tongue and choked. Tears rose in his eyes, but the korytnik didn't relent - and he continued to rub his palm over Rzhavyi’s lips, straining his arm and leg. 

It was humiliating. Rzhavyi coughed, the sweet mint flavor of the gingerbread mixed in his mouth with the salty taste of blood; He shook his head, contrived to bite Topor’s finger, and the korytnik finally withdrew his hand. 

He stared at him, leaning his shaggy, curly head forward. 

Rzhavyi spat out the remains of the gingerbread in his direction, aiming for his face. Blown up lumps hit Topor in the chest, hit the collar, but he didn’t even react to it. He continued to stare, not loosening his grip, and here Rzhavyi felt uneasy - as in that, their first fight. Topor looked at his mouth. On the neck. He also looked into his eyes, but now he felt differently somehow, heavily and viscously, so that Rzhavyi almost turned away himself. But he remembered in time. 

“What are you staring at, asshole[10]?”

“I don’t need your permission.” Topor squeezed his wrists more painfully and leaned over, tightly blocking Rzhavyi's attempt to break free. “I don’t give a fuck who you bring with you to fight me. Bring me back my tape deck, and then we’ll figure out who owes what, to whom, and how much. Got it? 

“I don’t owe you a damn thing,” Rzhavyi croaked. “Got it?”

“So I don’t fucking owe you either,” said Topor. “I'm not gonna live by your notions of honor[11].”

The light in the ceiling of the stairwell landing blinked. The korytnik had a red, unkind face: the eyebrows drawn on the bridge of the nose, the hard line of the mouth, the stubborn chin, slanted to the side - had the jaw been broken before? His hair hung down on either side of his cheeks and cast a thick shadow over his cheekbones. His lips were smeared in blood. 

“What are you staring at?” Topor licked them, frowned, touching the wound with his tongue, and opened his hands. “Run back home to mama. Or round up your crew. But if you touch my ride again with a single finger, I’ll pull you out of bed if I have to, and beat you so hard you forget the way home.”

The light bulb flashed for the last time and went out. The only remaining light filtered down from the second floor, weak, such that in the first couple of seconds, Rzhavyi didn't see anything in front of him, except for outlines. He was not afraid, no. He just remembered the railroad and the enforcers that mopped him with their feet at the whim of the woman from Leningradskaya. 

“Your car got hit for a reason,” he said into the darkness hanging over him. “Don’t give me any more reasons, and there won’t be any more problems.”

“ For a reason? What, your brass knuckles were gold plated or some shit? ” Topor pulled away, got off of Rzhavyi and dusted off his pants. “I'm serious about the tape deck.  I don't care where you have to look for it, but you're bringing it back."

Rzhavyi didn't have time to answer. Korytnik went out into the street and slammed the door behind him; Rzhavyi remained in the stuffy silence of the entrance. He sat down on the stairs, biting his cheek from the inside, when his body gave way to careless movement, found cigarettes in his pocket of his track pants and lit a cigarette, bloody fingers slipping on the lighter. 

His mouth was still sweet and salty at the same time. 

Rzhavyi inhaled smoke. Somewhere inside there was a shameful, scratchy feeling that he didn't want to think about; Topor could have beaten him unconscious or even threatened his mother, but he hadn’t. 

And not because he was afraid of retaliation. Guys like him didn’t fear. 

Rzhavyi knew this from personal experience.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Art for original fic:_  
> [ Hux after fight with Kylo by koniks](https://koniks.tumblr.com/post/169622873595/illustration-on-rus-kylux-fanfic-au-in-russian)  
> TRANSLATOR'S NOTES  
> 1\. _"Listen, Vasya,"_ A common rude phrase to address an unfamiliar person, or just to tell the person that you don't care about their name.[ return to text ]
> 
> 2\. Dead: This is Mitaka's street nickname translated literally. It sounds a bit like Dopheld. [See Context & Notes document for more explanation of street names. ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367092/chapters/53436760)[ return to text ]
> 
> 3\. _trash bin_ The trash bins near the house, in the yard, are [large communal tanks for garbage, metal bins with open tops and wheels.](http://www.rostov.aif.ru/society/jkh/pomoyka_pod_oknami_chto_prinesli_vo_dvory_konteynery_dlya_othodov) The trash bin at the bus stop is a usual small type.[ return to text ]  
>   
> 4\. _Energeticheskaya_ The name of a bus stop, literally energetic street, probably a bus stop near a power plant. [return to text]  
>   
> 5. _Officerska_ name of the district or street[ return to text ]  
>   
> 6\. _they ran bootleg vodka_ \- they were moonshiners, or bootleggers. It was pretty easy to make vodka, but the license costs a lot. So some criminals were making their own vodka, labeling it as normal vodka and selling it. The problem was that often they used bad ingredients and A LOT of people died from that kind of product.[ return to text ]
> 
>   
> 7\. _Stalinka_ A nicer type of apartment building with expensive flats (thick walls, high ceilings). The "chick" was obviously rich and provoked class hatred in Rzhavyi. [See story notes for an in-depth discussion of the types of housing.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367092/chapters/53438620)[ return to text ]
> 
>   
> 8\. _belyashi and shavermu_ \- type of food. You can make it at home, but often it's sold as street food. Fried dough with (usually) meat. [More info and pics](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peremech)[ return to text ]
> 
>   
> 9\. _her bathrobe_ \- A common bathrobe was typical at-home attire for a woman. Rzhavyi's mother is wearing a skirt and jacket at home in this scene. It means they have a guest, and she wanted to look better.[ return to text ]
> 
>   
> 10\. _“What are you staring at?”_ \- Gopniks are very sensitive to looks, and people would start fights and behave aggressively just because you looked for too long or directly in the eyes. [ return to text ]
> 
>   
> 11\. _notions of honor_ \- Ponyatia. The criminal rules. [See more explanation in the Context and Notes document](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367092/chapters/53471086)[ return to text ]


	3. Tape Deck

The tape deck bugged Rzhavyi for three days.

He gnawed the cap of his pen, peering intensely at the monitor - the problem was not solved, there was a mistake somewhere, but he couldn't figure out where. He barely answered the theoretical questions - he didn’t have enough time to prepare, and he didn’t get to the final exam questions at all. He’d bullied a local nerd for a copy of his lecture notes and glanced through them, but could hardly remember anything. He could only hope that he’d done a practical portion.

But it was a pain in the ass too. Rzhavyi tried to think about fucking algorithms, but instead his mind returned over and over, first to the staircase, and then to his kitchen, where Topor sat. Why hadn’t the korytnik beaten the shit out of him? Why did Rzhavyi walk away with only gingerbread stuffed in his mouth, a bruise on his cheekbone and a busted lip? If Rzhavyi had a ride, and someone tore off the mirrors, busted out the windows, and even tore out the tape deck, he would have skinned them for it. Topor held all the cards to punish him. After midnight, the stairwells would be deserted. The korytnik knew how to fight. Rzhavyi even thought that he might have studied some kind of martial arts or something - Topor wasn’t a common street brawler. He had fucking technique. He’d dropped Rzhavyi before he’d made a peep.

Maybe Topor understood that if he’d pressed Rzhavyi too hard, he’d ended up ringing in the New Year in the hospital. Or he’d heard something about Rzhavyi, or Damirian had warned him, since they’d hit it off. 

And what if he really wasn’t scared? Maybe the korytnik was protected by someone - had relatives in the police, or had bros who were down for him. 

When he finally finished the sheet of fucking exercises, Rzhavyi laid out the theoretical questions, which he’d dredged out of his mind with difficulty to the prof. The man nodded, opened his greasy report card booklet and scribbled a grade inside it. Rzhavyi at first didn't even believe his luck. He looked in the booklet once more in the canteen, simultaneously putting boiled buckwheat with a chop into his mouth - funny, he hadn’t even hoped to pass the class. 

Rzhavyi hailed a minibus on Karbysheva St. - the one he needed showed up - and dug through his pockets in search of change. Scraped the coins for the ticket and poured them into the driver's hand[1] .

  


_Minibus or marshrutka, which means route taxi, or Gazelle, which is the brand name_

The  _Gazelle_ minibus was packed. Rzhavyi’s knees rested almost on the legs of the old lady sitting opposite, she noticed his broken face and didn't protest. The bus had come from downtown and was packed to capacity. Half an hour later, when they were driving past the forest, the grandmother put down the crossword, in which she wrote down the letters while her hand was shaking on the bumps, and asked sympathetically: “Who beat you up, sweetheart?”

Rzhavyi wanted to snap back out of habit. But he bit his tongue - she was well-intentioned. Maybe she had a grandson the same age as Rzhavyi. Only more decent, maybe. 

Her grandson for sure didn’t have a constantly bruised face.

“I tripped,” he lied. He wouldn’t complain to an old woman about Topor. “It’s nothing. It’ll heal.”

The old woman paused, assessing him doubtfully. She was all wrinkled, in a crocheted hat, a thick down puffer coat, with a colorful plastic bag on her knees. Rzhavyi’s grandmother lived in the village, and he hadn’t visited her in a long time - didn’t have time. And she never called Rzhavyi sweetheart, maybe only as a child. Was he a sweetheart? Only kittens were sweet, and even then only until their claws came out.

“You take care of yourself,” the old woman finally said. “Do not fall anymore.”

Rzhavyi couldn't think of anything to say. Some guy shouted at the driver to slow down for his stop, and climbed through the aisle to the door; grandmother, too, crouched, intending to get up. 

“God bless,” she said instead of goodbye, and Rzhavyi wished her good health in return. 

He turned on the music in the headphones, but for some reason, it didn't play, and he switched songs. Again he remembered the tape deck, broken mirrors, and the korytnik, who’d chatted with his mother at their kitchen table and hadn't promised to put her in the ground. 

Rzhavyi didn't know what to do. Return the tape deck? But that would be almost against the Rules. What’s done was done, so why retreat? But what if Topor knew cops or had bros?  But then Topor would have sent them after Rzhavyi. He wouldn't have waited for Rzhavyi at home and chewed the cud with his mom. 

“Holler where you want me to stop, all right?”

By the end of the route, Rzhavyi was the only passenger. On the street, it has long been dark. Snow fell again. 

“In the seventh quarter,” he answered. - “Near the  _ Eden  _ shop _. _ "

Rzhavyi didn't go home. He called Dead and took the tape deck and the bat from him, still not sure if he was doing the right thing[2]; Mit’ya[3] offered to drink in the stairwell, but Rzhavyi turned it down. He told Dead that he needed to handle some business. 

Topor’s car wasn’t in the courtyard. Rzhavyi smoked a cigarette near the third entrance, crushed the butt, punched the buttons of the coded door lock, which were shiny with grease. What kind of security was this, if you could pick out the numbers that easily, simply because they were pressed year after year, and the iron was polished? Then he stepped into the warm staircase. 

_Armitage Hux as Arseny Khakasov aka Rzhavyi or Rusted_ art by [NiiBeth](https://twitter.com/Kortesku)  


On the fifth floor, only one apartment had a number on the door. Rzhavyi counted doors down the hallway until he hit the one he needed—fifty-two—put the tape deck under his arm and grabbed the bat with the same hand. It would’ve been smarter to leave it, but Rzhavyi remembered it only just now. He couldn’t ditch it right there. It’d be snatched. 

He heard the bell ring on the other side of the door. For a minute nothing happened, and Rzhavyi felt that another second - and he’d change his mind, would get shitfaced with Dead, and in the morning would  bring the tape deck to the chop shop. But a second, it seems, didn't pass. 

Locks clicked in the door. 

“Have you brought me a bat or what?”

Topor leaned his shoulder to the doorjamb. And turned a close look from the bat to the face of Rzhavyi. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Rzhavyi pulled out the tape deck from under his arm and passed it to the korytnik across the threshold. “Here. Take it before I change my mind.”

Topor seemed surprised. The expression on his face had definitely become strange. He took the tape deck with a doubtful look as if he didn’t really believe that it was his or that it was a tape deck in general - that maybe, in fact, it was a painted brick. 

Rzhavyi had nothing else to do there. He turned and went to the stairs, went down to the window between the stories, but didn’t hear the slam of the closing door. 

“Hey. Rzhavyi,” the korytnik called from above. Rzhavyi lifted his head. Topor was leaning out of the apartment looking at him. 

“What do you want?”

The korytnik turned the radio over in his hands. His arms were bare, the battered wifebeater was taut on his broad chest. The hair on his head stuck out in different directions in large waves, stuck to his forehead, curled around his neck. His non-Russian breeding oozed out of him, inexorably. 

“Want a beer?” 

Rzhavyi thought he misheard. The korytnik was offering him a drink? It couldn’t be. He was, probably, a complete fuckwad.

“No gingerbread today.” Without waiting for an answer, Topor briefly grinned. “What, did you get stuck there?”

“Do you think I came up here to make friends?” Rzhavyi threw the bat on his shoulder and frowned because there was no reason to smile. “You are not my bro to drink beer with.” 

“I don’t want to talk heart to heart to you,” the korytnik said tightly. “You broke my car, remember that?”

“And then what?” Talking upwards with a battered head was uncomfortable, and Rzhavyi climbed back up the steps. He leaned his back on the iron staircase that stretched into the attic to the right of the door to Topor's crib, and lowered the bat down, loudly banging it on the floor. “Maybe I broke it, maybe I didn’t. You can’t prove anything.”

“I'm not gonna run to the cops,” Topor straightened up from the door jamb, threw the radio tape deck on a shelf nailed to the wall in the hallway, and folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t need any fucking proof.”

Topor must have practically lived in the gym. And ate a lot. Rzhavyi thought sadly about the meager cutlet he’d eaten in the canteen, rubbed his nose with his fist and hoped that dad hadn’t polished off everything that his mother had prepared for the dinner[4] .

“And what are you gonna do?” He asked Topor. “Do you expect me to repair the car? You can go and fuck yourself with that idea, you hear me?“

“Do you like it when you have a blue face?” the korytnik expressively looked at his right cheekbone, went down with a glance below, to his mouth, and stuck there. “Why are you looking for trouble again, eh? I’m being nice about this. Let’s talk and go our separate ways.” 

Topor’s lip hasn’t healed yet. It was swollen, with caked blood in a narrow crack. Girly pink. Only, girls didn’t have a mustache like that. And a beard. 

And what the fuck, why was he thinking about girls? What did they have to do with it? 

“The subject of the conversation is then unclear since there are no complaints.” Rzhavyi intercepted the bat higher and straightened up, stepped in the direction of the korytnik’s crib. “State your business.”

Topor moved to let him pass into the apartment. There was no light in the hallway, so it was difficult to assess the surroundings - there was some kind of coat rack on the left, and shelves and a door to the toilet on the right. And shabby Soviet floral wallpaper. 

Rzhavyi headed into the kitchen, glancing briefly around the living room - also nothing special, only sparse furniture. Unfolded sofa bed, a carpet hung behind it[5] on the wall, another - on the floor. On one wall, the wallpaper was completely ripped off - only pieces of newspapers remained[6], with the double doors of a wardrobe sticking out in the center. Somewhere, probably, there was a TV set and a computer, but Rzhavyi didn't spot it.

He put a bat to the kitchen door, went inside and sat on a stool. In his own place, the kitchen was lined with wallpaper, but Topor’s was half painted green and half whitewashedx[7]. And besides the stove with twisted handles, a cast iron sink, a table, and a refrigerator, there was nothing in it. And, in general, there wasn’t room for anything else. Rzhavyi’s father had hung up more drawers from above so that his mother could store pots, but the korytnik’s grandfather probably didn’t fucking need them. 

“Open it yourself.” Topor placed the sweaty bottle of  _Baltika_ beer on the table in front of him. And, sitting down opposite on the plaintively creaking stool, he knocked the lid off his on the beaten edge of the table. 

Rzhavyi did the same. The  _ Baltika _ was tasty — better than the  _ Okhota _ that he usually bought. It’d be good to eat. There was a pan under the lid on Topor’s stove, and from it smelled something fried, spicy, so that Rzhavyi’s stomach immediately curled into a tight knot. 

“Why are you mad at me, huh?” the korytnik lowered his elbows on the table. And he stared without blinking, leaning chin on his fist. “How am I bothering you?” he continued, boring Rzhavyi with his dark eyes. “Do you think it’s okay to cripple my car just because I threw away your fucking brass knuckles and wrecked a fucking trash can?”

“You’ve got your rules.” Rzhavyi drank a sip, thought and took another one. “I got mine.”

“Your rules are bullshit,” said Topor, without ceremony. “How old are you anyway? Are you still in high school, or what?”

Now the korytnik looked at Rzhavyi’s hand. The one holding the bottle - smeared in ink so that his beaten knuckles couldn't be seen[8]. 

“Is that your business?” Rzhavyi sniffed - his nose was running again, shitty cold. “Fuck school. I’m sick of it.”

Something, must not have been right with his face. Well, other than a bruise and a cut lip. Otherwise, why would Topor keep staring like that? Whether with doubt, or with interest, or who the fuck knew why. Rzhavyi didn’t want to play the staring contest with him anymore. He looked past Topor at the car posters glued to the wall with scotch tape - old, Soviet, with photos of  _ Zhiguli _[9] . In one, the boxy cars were driving in the woods, in another along the seashore, and the people in them were happy, smiling at Rzhavyi, and he felt the attentive gaze of Topor, who was drinking beer silently.

“My grandfather worked at the VAZ plant,” korytnik finally spoke. “Engineer.”

Rzhavyi drank his  _Baltik_ ". He didn't know what to say - he was not a friend of the korytnik to listen to him talk about his grandfather. Only why had Topor invited him to his crib? Bullshit chatting about relatives? Did he have no one else to talk to? 

“You were more talkative on the street.” Topor chuckled and leaned back against the cabinet behind him. He stretched his legs under the table, touching Rzhavyi’s, and didn’t bat an eye. His leg was hot; he could feel it through his sweatpants. “All right. You brought the tape deck - well, that’s already enough. What else could I ask from you?”

Rzhavyi moved his leg a bit to the right, but didn't take it away completely, so that the korytnik wouldn't think that he gave in. 

“Don’t put your stupid legs right there.”

“And where should I put them? This place is built for microorganisms.”

Topor's smile was broad and kind of naughty, not at all like it’d been in Rzhavyi’s flat. Then the korytnik smiled only with his mouth; there was something evil and wary in his eyes. And now there was not. Oh, in that Rzhavyi understood  immediately . 

“It’s a normal flat. Did you move here from a palace, or something?”

Rzhavyi didn't know why he blurted it out. The words of the korytnik hurt him - because he himself lived in the same small apartment. He lived and didn't complain, but this fucking asshole probably moved from the private sector or even from a new building. Or maybe even from another city. 

“From a palace?” Topor frowned, leaning forward. “Well yes. In the barracks, in general, there is more space. So, you could say it was a palace, compared to this. I rode my steed to get here.”

Rzhavyi, in general, had a good fantasy. He vividly imagined Topor, sitting on a horse, with a whip and a shield, in clothes embroidered with patterns - but actually, he rode not from a palace, but from a tent in a steppe or some village in the mountains. With a face like that, he couldn’t have ridden over from Europe. 

“Why are you smiling? You think that’s funny?” Topor reached out to the cabinet under the sink, opened the door and threw an empty beer bottle into the trash can.

He could reach any place in this small room called the kitchen without getting up from the stool — even to Rzhavyi, if he had to. Rzhavyi, just in case, strained, tightening his grip on the bottle of  _ Baltika _ . 

“So what if I think it’s funny?” He followed Topor with his eyes, who now, with difficulty turned sideways between the table and the stove. He lifted the lid of the pan behind him and began to stir the meat, chopped up in large pieces, mixed with pepper, tomatoes and something else unbearably tasty. 

“So, nothing,” answered the korytnik sharply, slapping the lid into place. “Piss off.”

Talking didn't work. Neither about “business,” nor as friends. And what did this bull-headed idiot want from Rzhavyi, if he didn’t even once mention his car. 

“For some reason, you talk to me without respect.” Rzhavyi rose from the table.

He walked around it - half a step to the right, one forward, and then there was almost no distance between him and Topor. 

The korytnik measured him with a long look and rose to his feet. If they fought in this two-by-two meter space, they’d be more fucked up from running into the corners of furniture than from their fists; and they both knew it. At least, Topor didn't attack him. Just stared. 

Meat sizzled in the pan. On Topor's chin, under the beard, an old, almost imperceptible scar stretched to the corner of his mouth. There were many moles - on the cheeks, on the forehead. And this mouth with these lips, maybe he’d grown a mustache to hide them. Rzhavyi would have done the same, but only morons, like the korytnik, walk around with a beard. Rzhavyi got his soft lips from his mother—he hadn’t inherited his father's, which compressed into a thin line. When he got a split lip, it suited Rzhavyi much more than when they were intact. 

“When your snout heals, I'll correct it again for you,” the korytnik said in a deep, low voice. “And now get the fuck out. I didn't invite you to a dinner.”

“Hey, what. I’ll leave when I feel like it.” Rzhavyi fisted the wifebeater on Topor's chest. It turned out to be inconvenient - there was no collar, knuckles pressed against his hot skin, but he couldn’t grab him with anything else. 

“Hands off.” Topor squeezed his wrist. Fingers completely encircled, tanned, coarse, with grime stuck under the nails - oil, probably, engine oil. Rzhavyi felt under his fist how korytnik’s chest was rising on the inhale. 

Something was wrong. 

Topor didn’t try to break his bones. The grip wasn’t strong. Rzhavyi turned his arm, twisting, pulled him towards himself - but the korytnik didn't let go. The edge of the thumb was pressed into his wrist from the inside, right under the palm, where Rzhavyi's veins always showed through. 

The korytnik was, apparently, looking at them - and then raised his eyes back to Rzhavyi, and his eyes became some kind of glass. Strange. Topor said no more, only stared out from under his frowning brows. 

Rzhavyi pulled his hand, stepping away. He backed into the fridge. 

He could still feel the touch of those fingers on his wrist. 

“You'd better think about your own face,” He swallowed with his parched throat, grabbed the bat from the corner and added, looking at the korytnik still frozen in the middle of the kitchen, “It might have no time to heal.” 

Topor was silent. And he didn't accompany him to the door. 

Rzhavyi lit a cigarette in the staircase of the third floor, on the move, the bat tucked under his arm. He went downstairs, went out into the courtyard and perched in a squat on a bench, lined with cardboard boxes and piled with snow[10] . The cigarette ended quickly and it was the last one. In front, through the small garden and the driveway, Rzhavyi saw the curtained windows of his crib. Lights shined in all three of them. 

He didn't immediately realize that he was rubbing his wrist with his fingers, clinging to the skin with his nails, where the korytnik had touched it. And when he noticed, he couldn't understand why he was doing this. Anxiety curled up tightly and cool inside him - as if something bad had happened. Or it should have happened. 

Rzhavyi closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply, listening to the rare noise of cars passing down the street, and then flicked the butt away and climbed off the bench. 

He had to go to bed. 

He needed to get this fucking day over with already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Art for original fic:_   
>  [moodboards with Hux and Kylo by the original author aka nonstill aka KNDRT](https://nonstill.tumblr.com/post/169226121858/east-slavsau-where-armitage-works-in-the-black)   
>    
>  1\. _Minibus_ \- a private for-profit bus service that supplements the public bus service. Public buses are fare-subsidized and easy to cheat paying the fare at all, but slow. Minibuses are more expensive and overcrowded, but faster. Minibus drivers are often immigrants not used to driving in Russia, and hence are prone to accidents.    
>  [ return to text ]   
>    
>  2. _Still not sure if he was doing the right thing_ \- not sure if he is acting according to the Rules / isn't being a coward. (See: [supplemental notes on Thieves' Law](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367092/chapters/53471086))   
>  [ return to text ]   
>    
>  3\. _Dead / Mit'ya_ \- Mitaka.    
>  [ return to text ]   
>    
>  4\. _the meager cutlet he'd eaten in the canteen_ \- [the sad little breaded porkchop](https://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/09/8d/1f/c3/caption.jpg)   
>  [ return to text ]   
>    
>  5\. _carpet hung behind the sofa_ \- Carpets are hung on the wall. Typically right behind the sofa. It serves as a layer of insulation from the cold, but also it was considered a nice decorative object to have. [(Example)](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/maxim_nm/51556845/5720222/5720222_original.jpg) [ return to text ]   
>    
>  6\. _newspapers pasted to wall under wallpaper_ \- This was a regular practice. The translation team has several thoughts about why: 1. the wallpaper was shitty and thin. 2. more insulation against cold. 3. to even out bumps and cracks in the wall, smooth it out before applying wallpaper.   
>  [ return to text ]   
>    
>  7\. _half green and half whitewashed_ \- a common kitchen paint job. [(Example)](https://sun9-41.userapi.com/c844617/v844617640/5813/Kn0wuHDIi4A.jpg)   
>  [ return to text ]
> 
>   
> 8\. _[Rzhavyi's hand] smeared in ink_ \- he had formulas written on his hand to cheat on his exam. He wants to be a tough guy, but he has a schoolboy's hands.  
> [ return to text ]
> 
>   
> 9\. _Zhiguli_ \- another name for the car make Lada. This is the brand of car Topor owns, which were manufactured in Tolyatti at the VAZ plant, where his grandfather worked. Rzhavyi refers to them in this scene as "bricks", a reference to their boxy shape.[ return to text ]
> 
>   
> 10\. _perched in a squat on a bench_ \- [(example)](https://cs7.pikabu.ru/images/previews_comm/2018-08_6/1535340993144218688.jpg)[ return to text ]


	4. Ankle

Blood was pouring into Rzhavyi’s eye. His eyelids were pinching, his eyelashes stuck together. His left ribs ached and nasty nausea rolled up his throat because he’d been swallowing his blood for about fifteen minutes. He’d bitten his cheek when someone had punched his jaw. It seemed like his nose was broken too, but Rzhavyi wasn’t sure - the pain was harsh, but tolerable.

“Son of a bitch,” Rzhavyi slammed the face of the resilient asshole from the eleventh quarter into the dirty snow. "Do you understand everything, you fuck? Answer me!"

The snow was red. The asshole’s muzzle, too.  Dead was occupied with the second one. The third one, the biggest, was pinned to the ground by Rodionov, Rzhavyi’s bro from the garages. The fourth one had gotten away.

On the dead-end nameless Volga River embankment beyond the highway and the desolate park it was dark, empty and quiet. Exactly like the inside of a coffin - scream all you want, no one would hear you. People came here for a showdown from all over the New City, and maybe, the Old City too. Rzhavyi didn't know for sure. A year ago, the  _ Volgovsky _ gang killed someone here, and before that, from the beginning of the nineties, gangs had chosen this place to settle beefs in private. [1] The criminal groups couldn’t share the  _ AvtoVAZ _ car factory and all the offices associated with it. [2]

But Rzhavyi didn’t want to look too closely. The guys from the garages had shady business with serious people; Rzhavyi was trying to keep his nose out of it. It wasn’t worth catching a bullet in the ribs in someone else’s war - he didn’t want to go beyond stolen mobiles and hard drives with sketchy data. 

The goon pressed into the snow was saying something, but the words were unclear. Rzhavyi pressed him with his leg, straightened up, and wiped his eyes with his knuckles - blood-smeared, but at least he could see better.

And there was something to see. A car appeared on the horizon — Rzhavyi wouldn't have noticed it a minute later, because its headlights shut off, and it crept along in the dark.

There were two options: the cops or the guy who’d gotten away had called  the mobsters who were protecting them, and both options sucked. [3] The cops would snatch him, the mobsters would have him over a barrel - to compensate in cash for the damaged faces of their flunkies - or they’d take him out into the forest and beat him so hard, he’d never return. [4]

Rzhavyi didn’t stay and listen to what the goon was muttering. Making a run for it worked best if they split up; the car couldn’t divide into three parts, and there were hardly more than four men inside. Well, five, maximum. If he ran fast, right through the old spa-hotel, he would dump out along the highway. The cops would search on the territory of the hotel - they’d decide that they were hidden somewhere in the park gazebo[5]. Stupid pigs. But if they were mobsters ... with these it’d be more difficult. 

“Run, guys.”

He kicked the body on the ground in the ribs one last time. And he ran in a straight line, to the place where the paved road ended, and then there was only a dirt path. On the left, through a series of crooked beach umbrellas[6], he could see Dead running; Rodionov went straight to the highway.  Rzhavyi only had a vague idea how Rodionov would maneuver through the snowdrifts, but if he’d headed there, he must have known what he was doing.  The cop’s siren wailed behind him, and Rzhavyi picked up the pace - well, it wasn’t the mob, but it was too early to relax. 

His side hurt from running so much that it was painful to breathe. Rzhavyi clenched his teeth. Without looking back, he jumped over the fence of the spa-hotel.  “Zvezda” wouldn’t reopen until April, and in the winter, except for a guard at the entrance, the place was abandoned.  In the dark, he couldn’t see where he was running, but relied on instinct and memory - past the sports field and to the right, then along the three-story building. After running around it, Rzhavyi leaned his back against the wall, breathing hard; before his vision blurred again. A nasty, lead-copper lump stuck in his throat.  He couldn’t hear the cops, but when he leaned out to peek around the corner, they turned out to be very close - they had also climbed the fence and now they were sneaking around, flicking their flashlights in front of them. 

Rzhavyi clenched his fists. Holding back a painful exhalation, he forced himself to move on. To the opposite fence, away from the path lit by occasional flashlight beams, he crouched down and hid behind the trees. 

The pigs didn't catch him with their flashlights. Rzhavyi squeezed between the bent rods and looked back just in case - fucking cops were looking for him where he had just been,  but they were heading away to the third building, not coming toward the fence. 

Now he could catch his breath, and slowly make his way to the highway.  Slowly - because it couldn't be done quickly, when every ten meters you caught the rough birch trunks with your palm and spit blood into the snow, crouching. Rzhavyi even tripped a couple of times over some roots or just on the ground, sprained his ankle severely and, limping, ran across the highway. 

In the middle of a vacant lot between the highway and Sportivnaya Street, he looked around for the last time.  He’d lost the tail. The cops had disappeared behind him.  The walk to his house would take twenty minutes at a brisk pace. Rzhavyi pulled a hood over his head, hiding his beaten face so he wouldn’t attract too much attention in the city, slipped his blood-smeared hands into the pockets of his pants, crossed Sportivnaya Street at a traffic light, whose green eye no longer had a precise outline, but was clearly triple, and he turned into courtyards. 

He felt completely fucking sick on the outskirts of _Children's World_ kid's store[7] His leg had gotten worse. Rzhavyi was already on autopilot, not knowing where he was going; ran into a baby stroller with a mother attached to it that came out of nowhere right in front of him. The stroller was dark and Rzhavyi for some reason thought that it was good that the blood from his hands wouldn't be visible on it, and the mother might not have to wash the rain cover. The chick was wrapped in a down jacket. Like a fat caterpillar she stared at him with wide-open, scared eyes and turned the stroller to the side, but she didn’t shout and call for help, and Rzhavyi tried to get away quickly before she came to her senses. 

He wasn’t even sure why he felt so bad from a beaten face and a couple of missed punches to his stomach. He was dizzy , his lips were burning, plus he had been frozen so much so he hadn’t been able to get warm since he’d been by the  _ Zvezda  _ Hotel[8] _. _

__

Another hundred meters, and he would reach the entrance to his apartment block. 

__

Rzhavyi only had enough strength left to go another fifty meters . Maybe he should go to Dead’s place? He didn’t want to give his father the pleasure of seeing his beaten face. Dead lived in a neighboring building, maybe he could’ve already reached it if the cops hadn’t chased him.  Rzhavyi put his hand in his jacket pocket - and instead of a mobile phone he felt only a crumpled ten Ruble note and a broken cigarette. 

__

He went over all his pockets. Twice. The phone was gone. 

__

It must have fallen out when he climbed over the fence of the spa-hotel. Oh, fucking hell. It was a nice phone. He wouldn't give a fuck, except Rzhavyi didn't have all the numbers memorized. He might manage to re-enter half of them. 

__

He had a tickle in his throat, either he swallowed blood again, or inhaled cold air. Rzhavyi coughed, and from the effort, he immediately paused, his ears ringing and vision going dark. In order not to fall down, he rested his hand on the hood of a nearby car, took a breath and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his jacket. 

__

To his left, slightly behind, buzzed the intercom. Someone came in or went out, Rzhavyi couldn’t tell the difference. He needed to endure and get finally to bed. Rzhavyi concentrated, gathering his strength, and therefore he heard the steps behind him too late. He didn't have time to turn around, before his face was suddenly slammed into the hood, and his elbow was pressed into his back, between his shoulder blades. 

__

“What the fuck're you doing here? Eh?”

__

The cap slid off Rzhavyi's head to the side, covering his eyes, but he recognized Topor by his voice. And because of the car - he hadn't noticed whose car he was pawing. Just a black car with tinted glass, both mirrors in place.

__

“Back off.” Rzhavyi jerked away and was surprised when he was easily released; but the joy didn’t last long. 

__

Topor grabbed Rzhavyi’s collar with his hand and shoved him away from the car. The street was slippery, and Rzhavyi sprawled on the ground right in front of the  _ Desyatka _ , scraping his hands against the asphalt. 

__

“Didn’t I beat you hard enough last time?” Korytnik squeezed his shoulder forcefully, turned, and then put Rzhavyi flat on his back in the street and pinned his chest with his knee. “You're fucking crazy. What the …”

__

He faltered in mid-sentence. A street light shined in Rzhavyi’s face- a yellow spot high above his head, bright in the center, surrounded with a rim of a metal awning. 

__

Looking at it was painful. 

__

“Hey. What happened to you?”

__

The pressure on his chest eased. Rzhavyi turned his gaze on Topor - he looked attentively, even leaned over, blocking the half of the street light with the visor of his cap. 

__

“Nothin’.” His mouth was dry, and his body ached, like he’d been through a meat grinder, and then pushed back in and cranked again. “I didn't touch your car. Let go, fucker.”

__

The Korytnik removed his knee from Rzhavyi's chest, but didn't rise - he just remained squatting, staring at him. Starting moving slowly, Rzhavyi turned on his side and rested his palm on the asphalt, and then fell over to his knees. He was shaking and shivering, his head was buzzing, and the fucking korytnik continued to stare. Was that prick savoring it, watching as Rzhavyi shamefully picked himself up off the road.

__

“Where'd you get your face marked up like that?” 

__

Rzhavyi’s vision went dark again when he managed to stand up. He probably would have fallen over again, if Topor didn't take him by the shoulder. And if Topor didn't lean Rzhavyi’s back against the car, firmly holding him with both hands. 

__

“Fucking shit, all of you is like a  _ Gzhel _ tea set.” 

__

Rzhavyi had no idea what he was talking about. What, fucking, tea set? And why  _ Gzhel _ _?_ Was that the one with the blue flowers? Or with red painting nonsense? Or was that  _ Khokhloma?  _ [9]

__

“Hey.” He opened his lips and swallowed a rough throat. “Give me your phone. I need to make a call.”

__

“What? To call where? Banykinskoe Cemetery? Have you seen yourself at all?” 

__

The korytnik's voice pounded in the head like a jackhammer. Rzhavyi didn’t need to visit a fortune teller to know he was being taunted. Why else would he have mentioned the cemetery? 

__

“I fucking—” Rzhavyi pressed his fist to his lips, holding back a cough, “—don’t carry a mirror with me. I'm not a chick, okay?”

__

“Well, it’d be fucked up, if a chick looked like you.” Topor threw Rzhavyi’s arm on his shoulder and grabbed his waist. “Come on, move your flippers. I'll take you to your crib, and then decide there with your folks.”

__

“I have to go to my bro.” Rzhavyi didn’t have enough strength to break away, so he could only talk himself free. “I said leave me alone. I'll go myself.”

__

“Hey, what.” Topor has stopped. He shoved Rzhavyi into the next car’s side - and, with narrowed eyes, spoke irritably and angrily, “Are you that nuts for real, or do you like to suffer?[10] Where is this bro, fuckhead? You don’t want to go home to mama, huh? Where should I take you?  You won’t be able to get halfway across the yard, I see that from your fucking face.”

__

Rzhavyi gritted his teeth. He felt either cold or hot; sweating under his jacket. Topor’s mug floated before his eyes. No, this wasn’t from the fight. It shouldn’t affect you so fucking badly when you get your clock punched a couple of times and a few taps to the ribs. It meant he was coming down with a cold or some other bullshit, and now he was running a fever. 

__

“Why do you keep bothering me?” Rzhavyi licked his dry lips and shoved Topor away, trying to escape from the ache, which gnarled his bones.  “I’m fucking telling you: leave me alone!”

__

The korytnik didn’t immediately answer. He paused, pinning Rzhavyi with a heavy glare from under the brim of his cap, breathing deeply and loudly, as if he had just ran a hundred-meter line or was lifting weights. Rzhavyi decided to punch him, because Topor was acting weird, but for this it was necessary to tear off his hand from the smooth side of the car, swing and hit. 

__

He only managed to unstick himself from the car. Partially. 

__

“Okay,” said the korytnik in a low voice, stepping back. “I’m leaving you alone.”

__

Rzhavyi inhaled with his mouth. His nose was stuffed. The pain made its way from his hands to his feet and wrapped in a knot in his back,  and he hobbled along a row of parked cars, trying not to lean heavily on his right leg. Rzhavyi dialed the code on the door half-deliriously, entered and pulled the door closed. Before the door slammed shut he heard a thud and howling car alarm from the doorway. 

__

“What a looker.” Mother let him into the apartment, glancing at the face. “Don’t throw stuff on the floor.”

__

Rzhavyi silently turned to the bathroom, shoved his dirty clothes into the open hatch of the washer, and sat down in the bottom of the empty bath, tearing the shower head from the skewed bracket. The water—pink from the blood—flowed into the drain, his face pinched and burned, the hair on his temple stuck together, and Rzhavyi rubbed it until it hurt. 

__

Somewhere there should be some peroxide. When Rzhavyi pressed a cottonball to the abrasion, the chill was replaced by fever; his washed face in the blurred mirror was swollen on the left, but everything seemed to be fine with his nose. Only his head hurt unbearably. 

__

Rzhavyi found pills in the drawers in the kitchen - lucky, in the box where the medicines were stored, there was a packet of "Theraflu", and the water in the kettle was still warm. 

__

Throwing powder and painkillers together, Rzhavyi laid down on his sofa in the walk-through living room, that was serving as his bedroom. [11] He pulled the blankets around himself, twisted, trying to warm up - and finally fell into a restless, disturbed sleep.  He didn't wake up as usual when his father passed through the room leaving for work, but only buried his face deeper into the gap between the pillow and the back of the sofa. He was sweating from the heat, on a wet sheet, with dry lips and murky pictures in his head. 

__

He had a delusional dream: he was digging into the file system of the gangster’s hard drive, for some reason in  _ Zvezdniy _ , sitting on the bed, and it wasn’t working, because, in fact, he was still a child, and the hard drive in his hands turned into a multi-colored inflatable ball. "Just roll it, listen," someone advised him in a low voice, "just like that, come on." Someone else's hands landed on the ball, big, strong, Rzhavyi turned his head and looked Topor in the face, but it blurred, disappeared, went rippling, like a bad channel on TV. 

__

When he woke up, Rzhavyi laid back down a bit with his eyes closed. The wet sheet clung disgustingly to his damp body. He had to take a leak from the Theraflu. Rzhavyi slowly pulled on his sweatpants; the right ankle was swollen, but his temperature seemed to be lower than before, and he really wanted to eat. 

__

In the hallway, he ran into his mother, closing the front door. 

__

“Ah, you woke up.” She turned in the tiny space between Rzhavyi, the bathroom and the walls, opened the door again and leaned out and shouted at the stairwell, “Renat! Have you left already? Come back!”

__

Rzhavyi froze on the threshold of the bathroom. Abruptly he didn't want to pee anymore. Maybe it was not necessary? Was he still dreaming? 

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“Doesn't he have a phone?” his mother squeezed past Rzhavyi and stopped at the mirror in the dead end of the hallway. “He came, asked how you were doing. Didn't stay for tea.”

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What to answer, Rzhavyi didn't know. His mom seemed to be upset that Topor didn't drink the  _ Mayskiy _ tea in their kitchen, but he didn't have time to think thoroughly about that - the korytnik appeared in the doorway.

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“You are awake, I see.”

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Rzhavyi nodded silently. And he wanted to find out, why the fuck Topor had a habit of dragging his ass into Rzhavyi’s crib when he interrupted in mid-sentence: “Don’t start, huh? You have a very fucking comfortable chair on the second-floor landing. We need to talk.” [12]

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Topor was wearing jeans and a leather jacket. He was in tightly laced army boots. And Rzhavyi stood in front of him only in his sweatpants, barefoot. There was no inflatable ball, and it was reassuring. Or vice versa? No ball meant it wasn’t a dream? So the korytnik needed something again?

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“One sec,” Rzhavyi pulled his jacket out of the closet, deciding that he was unlikely to get any worse from the chat with Topor, because things couldn’t really get any worse, “I’ll find slippers.”

__

He put a jacket on his bare body. He stuck his feet in flip-flops and went out after Topor, slamming the door. The armchair in the stairwell, tucked into a corner, was really comfortable, though it had cigarette ash on its side; Topor sat next to him on the unstable stool. 

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_Topor and Rzhavyi smoking in the stairwell_ art by [NiiBeth](https://twitter.com/Kortesku)  


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_  
_

“Listen,” he said as Rzhavyi lit a cigarette. “I didn’t realize yesterday, what was going on with you. I thought you would cripple my car again. I was a bit wrong.”

__

“So, what now?” A draft came through the cracked wooden frames of the window, and Rzhavyi buttoned his jacket all the way to his throat, curling up in the chair. “Did you come to apologize or what?”

__

“And why should I apologize?” Topor rested his elbow on the windowsill and stretched both legs onto the railing, leaning back on the stool. He rocked a couple of times. If the stool had been made of wood, it probably would have fallen apart by now, but this one had iron legs squeaking on the tiles. “I’ll explain the situation to you. It's your business to decide what happens next.”

__

Rzhavyi took a coffee can from the windowsill. [13] He set it on the worn armrest, torn up on the sides by the cats, and ashed his cigarette in it. His throat was tight from the smoke, and he coughed, swallowed the snot that almost flowed from his nose, and pressed his fist to his lips, trying to breathe in such a way as not to start coughing uncontrollably. 

__

“Hey, is it that bad?” Topor put a heavy hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly, but tangibly. “Maybe you need some water?”

__

“I’m fine.”

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Rzhavyi dropped his head to rest on his fist, and began to breathe shallowly, so that this fucking cough wouldn't start. He was sweating again, and couldn’t tolerate the cigarette any more. Even the smell was nauseating. Rzhavyi thrust the  butt into the can, and Topor let go of his shoulder, but instead of removing his hand, he touched Rzhavyi’s temple with his fingers. 

__

“You should rinse off,” he said. “Your hair is all crusty.”

__

Something was wrong. Rzhavyi didn't know why it seemed so to him. So what? It wasn’t like he’d never been touched by his bros. Hadn’t he fraternized with them, didn't he help Rodionov to pull out the stitches on the back of his head, after his patched head, having healed, began to itch so that he couldn't stand to wait to get to the ER? 

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“I'll figure it out.”

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Topor pushed his fringe aside. Actually, it wasn’t really a fringe - Rzhavyi just went a long time between haircuts. First he hadn’t had time, then money, and in the winter it doesn’t matter: you could push your hair under a cap - and it’d be fine. By spring, maybe, he’d have to shave it the hell off with a set of electric clippers, so it wouldn't be so hot. 

__

The korytnyk’s fingers were cool. That means that Hux’s temperature had risen again. Rzhavyi shook his head, looked at Topor’s dark eyes and asked angrily, “So what, is this the whole talk? I came with you, so that you’d give me advice, when I should wash my hair?”

__

Topor's brows twitched, sort of like he wanted to frown, and flinch the muscle on his cheek. The korytnik put his palm on the back of the chair and took a deep drag on his cigarette - as if he were going to smoke it all at once. 

__

“That’s not all.” Smoke poured out of his mouth on the exhale. “Aren't you sick of it yet? What do we have to fight over here - this shitty yard? Or what?”

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“This is my yard,” Rzhavyi said firmly. 

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“Whatever. I don't care whose it is.” the korytnik leaned forward and spoke quickly and firmly, stamping with the words, “I don’t give a fuck about the yard. Only I won't tolerate you for long, if you don’t chill out. Did I say anything about the mirror? About the broken glass? I let it go. There’s nothing to take from you anyway, and I don’t like your squabbles. I wanted to help you yesterday, and what did you do? Are you feral or what? Don’t you understand Russian? Why are you silent? Tongue stuck in your teeth?”

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“I made it clear last time.” Rzhavyi squinted, thinking that it’d be better to get out of that chair, but he seriously doubted that he had strength for that right now. “Don’t mess with me.”

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”And where’d you get that unhinged bullshit?” Topor asked the question in such an annoying tone, as if he was really surprised and wanted to know the answer. “Look, you have a cool mom. And you look like her, but you’re fucking deranged.” 

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Oh, there it was. Rzhavyi didn’t immediately respond to the korytnik, quickly estimating the situation in his mind - “cool mom”, gingerbread in the kitchen, mother’s words about Topor “Decent, or what?” and her barely noticeable frustration due to the fact that the korytnik hadn’t stayed for tea. That was a fucking crazy situation. Rzhavyi's mother was young, probably looked good - Rzhavyi didn't think about it, but she didn’t exactly look like an old shoe, like that chick from a nearby unit, for example. So that’s what it was, the korytnik sniffing around, trying to lay the pipe? And with Rzhavyi, like he’d decided to put on a buddy act as a cover story? What a filthy pervert. Besides, she was old enough to be his mom too. 

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“Listen here,” Rzhavyi said quietly, slowly, looking Topor in the eye. “If you come to see my mother again, I’ll mix you up with shit. You will remember your torn side mirror as a fucking gift, damn it.”

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Topor blinked. His face twisted, as if he had eaten a whole lemon, and Rzhavyi decided that he’d hit the bullseye. 

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And he didn’t expect the korytnik to laugh like a hyena. 

__

“What?” Topor sobbed loudly, tried to take a breath, looked at Rzhavyi and cackled again, so hard that he even had tears in his eyes. “What are you ... Oh, fucking, I can't! A-ha-ha! Fuck!”

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Laughter echoed throughout the stairwell. Rzhavyi didn’t know what to do, but to stare at Topor, who was already slapping his knee, bent over. He felt the fever again beginning to beat him, and he still couldn’t understand - like for real, he didn’t know what had made the korytnik screech with laughter. 

__

Maybe Rzhavyi really was still asleep. He even thought about pinching himself, as in childhood - when Topor suddenly abruptly stopped laughing, combed his hair with his hand over his forehead and, straightening up, calmly said, “I’m not into your mom. Are you  fucking nuts or what?”

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His eyes were still cheerful. And the corners of his lips quivered with laughter, which he tried to hold in. Rzhavyi frowned, rubbed his burning forehead with his fist, looked at Topor again - he was strange, that was for sure. And he smiled in such a way that for some reason Rzhavyi wanted to do the same.

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But he didn't smile.

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“No, she, of course, is ok.” Topor bit his lip and tucked curly hair behind his ears; it didn’t stay too long there, but it didn’t seem to bother him. “And her gingerbread cookies were delicious. But I am,” he faltered, shook the ashes into the can, and continued cautiously. “Just don’t get mad. Well, she must be twice my age.”

__

“Well, then stop fucking coming here, got it?”

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Rzhavyi got off the chair after all. He felt his temperature rising again. His mouth was dry. He put the can with the cigarette butts back on the window sill, took a breath, looking out the window - it was already dark there, not a damn thing was visible - and, trying not to limp too fucking visibly, went to the stairs. 

__

Too bad that he had to go down, not up. For some reason, the stairs seemed so fucking steep. Like a descent in the mountains. Although what they—the descents in the mountains— were like Rzhavyi didn't know. He only had seen it on TV. 

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He stepped down. And he squeezed the handrail with his fingers, hissing through his teeth, when the pain pierced his leg from the foot to the knee. 

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“Wait,” Topor went down a step below Rzhavyi. And he blocked the way. “What's wrong with you? Why are you limping?”

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“Sprained.” It was strangely unusual to look down at the korytnyk, and Rzhavyi moved to the right to go around him. “Nothin’. Damn.“

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It was quite painful to step. Rzhavyi frowned and stopped, angry at himself — he couldn't believe his bad luck. And it hadn’t even happened while he was jumping, or fighting, but when he’d run through that fucking park.

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“Hang on a second,” Topor let go of his shoulder and suddenly squatted right in the middle of the stairs, quickly pulled Rzhavyi’s sweatpant leg up and held him by the knee. “Let me see.”

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“I told you — I sprained it,” Rzhavyi said to the top of his head. “Are you a fucking doctor?” 

__

Topor didn't answer. He put his hand on Rzhavyi’s ankle, felt at the bone - it was almost not visible because of the swelling. Then he gently touched his foot from above, over the rubber edge of the flip flop. Then Topor pulled up the other leg of his sweatpants — to compare, probably. Rzhavyi had no other explanation. 

__

“Let me take you to a clinic,” Topor’s voice sounded dull, or maybe Rzhavyi's ears got clogged because of the fever. “You never know what it might be. It needs to be bandaged at least. Where’s your passport? Have you got an insurance card?”[14]

__

His words made sense. Rzhavyi leaned against the railing of the stairs, watching Topor pull the legs of his sweatpants down and, wiping his nose with his palm, replied nasally, “In my backpack. Near the computer. In the outside pocket.”

__

For some reason Topor wouldn’t meet his eyes anymore. While he was searching in his crib for the documents, Rzhavyi managed to descend to the first floor. The korytnik caught up with him on the last flight, where the railing was missing. 

__

“I got your sneakers,” said Topor, shaking a rustling bag in front of him. “The snow piled up. Put ‘em on.”

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Rzhavyi wanted to ask when the korytnik managed to sign up for mom duty. But he didn’t have time for that. He pulled on his sneakers with difficulty, crouching on the concrete slope of the stairs beneath a warm radiator. [15]

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Topor helped him up and brought him outside. 

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“Fuck, I have to clean it off.”

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The car was covered in fresh snow from the night before. There were fluffy white hats on the hood and roof; the windshield was covered with a thick crust of hoarfrost. Topor disabled the car alarm. 

__

“Get inside.” He nodded at the passenger door, rummaged in the trunk, and pulled out an ice-scraper. “I’ll hurry up.”

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Inside the car it was cold and dark, like in a snow cave. Topor scraped off the windshield, and Rzhavyi closed his eyes, feeling like he was falling asleep. Belatedly, the thought came to him that the korytnik could take him outside the city limits, throw him out and leave him in the middle of nowhere[16]. But it would be stupid - at least, Rzhavyi's mother could confirm the fact that they had left together. So why was Topor helping him? 

__

Rzhavyi stirred on the seat, settling more comfortably. He missed the moment when the korytnik had cleaned everything and got behind the wheel; He woke up only from the door slam and the noise of the starting engine. The heater buzzed, the radio started up, and Topor backed out of the yard into the driveway.

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“Is everything fine?” he asked, glancing quickly at Rzhavyi. 

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It wasn’t fine, of course. Rzhavyi knew for sure. 

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But he answered differently. 

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“Fine.”

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* * *

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**Chapter Footnotes**

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1\. _gangs ...settle beefs in private_  
zabit' strelky - gang members decide to organize an informal meeting with another gang, to solve their differences. Usually, for 'стрелки' they went somewhere quiet and abandoned, so neither police nor private citizens won't get hurt. In most cases, 'strelka' includes gun violence but can start with a heated discussion. If someone invites you to 'strelka' you can say no, it's against the Rules. High School boys, and sometimes girls, also used that term to challenge someone to a duel.

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[ return to text ]

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2\. _AvtoVAZ car factory_  
That's actually the key reason why this city is so awful. That was the biggest car factory in all the USSR.  
Most of the city was build because of it, and a lot of the people worked there. Then the USSR died, the factory becomes useless, a lot of people were laid off, or their salary was miserable.  
That's why where were so many criminals. Also, the parts of the factory that still were working, produced cars that for the first time in people could actually buy. And a lot of people traveled there to do so. Hence, even more criminals. [ return to text ]

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3\. _mobsters who were protecting them_  
Krysha (literally the roof) - means protection that criminal groups provide to small businesses for money. Often the protection from that same criminal group.  
It goes like that you open a small business (eg bodega), then some buff bros come to you and say something like "Hey, uncle, this is a dangerous neighborhood, anything can happen here. But you look like a normal man, so we can protect you for the {semireasonable amount of money}"  
In the best-case scenario, other criminal groups won't touch you too.  
And often it was connected to dirty cops, or dirty cops were 'protecting' small business.  
It can be used in a more broad meaning. "He/They are my krisha" can be said if you asked your older brother, or friends to help you during an argument with another guy, that potentially can become a fight.[ return to text ]

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4\. _have him over a barrel_  
Literally, put on the counter - You beat or offend someone, that person either had krysha, or has friends in/is part of a criminal group. After that, his bros come to you and demand money, often a much bigger amount than the damage was. They'd say something formal like "You need to pay him $200 for the doctor, $100 for vitamins, $500 for moral damage, $150 for reputation loss and $500 for our involvement. So $2000. Till tomorrow."  
If you can't pay, tomorrow they will add a huge percentage to that.  
What will happen next? It depends on how angry/crazy they are. They can keep taking your money. They can ask you for a favor. They can beat you, take your car/apartment/business if you have something. They can destroy something yours, like his home in Snatch (2000). They can beat/rape your family. Or kill you.[ return to text ]

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5\. A shitty _park gazebo_ [(PIC)](http://u-reki.ru/images/photos/small/5ec39b57eb71d43196393ac4c7c33f08.jpg)[ return to text ]

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6\. _crooked beach umbrellas_ [(PIC)](https://static.auction.ru/offer_images/2017/12/22/09/big/Q/QjpwCIhsaaw/foto_devushka_pljazh_moda_gribok_djuny_sssr.jpg)[ return to text ]

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7\. _Children's World_  
a common name for a big shop with toys, kid's clothes, etc. There was such shop with that name in every (big) city [(PIC)](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/3/38/Milovice_soviet_shop.jpg/270px-Milovice_soviet_shop.jpg)[ return to text ]

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8. _Zvezda Hotel_  
means Stellar- a lot of buildings had manes that connected to cosmos like Star, Stellar, Cosmos, Sputnik (satellite)[ return to text ]

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9\. _Gzhel tea set; Khokhloma_  
Gzhel Blue and white pottery. A tea set includes a samovar (water heater), teapot, cups and saucers. [(WIKI)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gzhel)

Khokhloma is a regional painting style, also used on fancy samovars and tea sets. [(WIKI)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Khokhloma)[ return to text ]

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10\. _Frostbitten by life_  
\- "frosted" also means someone who doesn't' care about life and wellbeing in general[ return to text ]

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11\. _the walk-through living room, that was serving as his bedroom_  
Hux's apartment contains a tiny kitchen, a tiny bathroom, one bedroom, where his parents sleep and something akin living room with sofa, where Hux sleeps. To get to the bedroom you need to pass Hux's room - no privacy for him. [(PIC)](https://bouw.ru/userfiles/h18.jpg)[ return to text ]

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12\. _comfortable chair in the landing_  
Non-smokers in the families usually kick their relatives to smoke outside of the apartment. Usual places are balconies and stairwells, but balconies are cold in winter. So, smokers need some comfort, therefor someone usually brings an old chair or stool, and someone hangs a handmade ashtray made from a tin-can on the banister, neighbors may even add a couple of flowers pots. [(PIC)](https://cdn-tn.fishki.net/26/upload/post/2017/05/12/2289011/1.jpg)[ return to text ]

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13\. _coffee can_ commonly used as an ashtray in stairwell smoking spots[ return to text ]

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14\. _Insurance Card_  
State medical insurance card, every citizen supposed to have it.  
Maybe they appeared even before 2000. It's a green piece of paper + plastic card. Maybe a note needed, that it's involuntary but free of charge. I mean - everyone is insured, no matter. So, you fill a form and receive it, and doctors need your number for their paperwork. (Surely you still get services if you drop from the street without documents, but if it is not a real accident and you just forget it, clinic personnel wouldn't be amused)  
Old version looks like this [(PIC)](https://cdn23.img.ria.ru/images/50017/37/500173704_0:99:2000:1232_600x0_80_0_0_494c62ada28ba40632213de6e72df308.jpg)[ return to text ]

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15\. _radiator in stairwell_  
a stairwell [(PIC)](https://img-fotki.yandex.ru/get/9168/148118371.51/0_a74bd_8302e2d6_XL.jpg)  
wall-mounted radiator in a walkway [(PIC)](https://cs6.pikabu.ru/post_img/big/2014/12/26/5/1419573934_1548082323.jpg)   
an empty spot in a stairwell where a radiator was removed [(PIC)](https://www.e1.ru/news/images/resize_720_480/l/new1/453/126/images/IMG_3518.JPG)[ return to text ]

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16\. _Leave him in the middle of nowhere_  
The original expression is "to the dogs' dicks" == to a complete disaster  
It's not about the place, it's more about emotions and state of the situation.  
[Expression of contempt, neglect, desire to get rid of smb., Smth.]  
Example: After we started to live together my life started to fall apart "to the dogs' dicks". = After we started to live together my life started to fall apart complete/became a fucking mess[ return to text ]

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Art for the original fic:_   
>  [Beaten Hux by koniks](https://koniks.tumblr.com/post/169515224305/study-on-photo-ghetto-of-russia-illustration-on)


	5. Faggots

The inside of Topor’s car was tricked out. It seemed that there was nothing left of the factory interior: maybe only structural details and a dark gray headliner. Rzhavyi had been too busy — and had had no need — to examine the interior when he was stealing the tape deck. The dashboard was made of polished black plastic. The same plastic covered the door interiors, which had speakers in them emitting blue light. The leather seats were probably not factory default either — Rzhavyi made himself comfortable on the passenger side.

Topor turned on the music, searching through a few tracks and stopping on some rock song. The lyrics weren’t in Russian, and Rzhavyi couldn’t make out the words. His grasp on English was poor. He understood only IT terms, things he’d picked up along the way. It wasn’t always an easy task to fix broken computers. Sometimes he had to search through online forums, and could only find answers in “American.” Rzhavyi had a schoolboy’s understanding of English: besides the rote phrase "London is Capital of Great Britain" [1] and the words for ‘table’ and ‘chair,’ he hardly remembered anything. There was no need. He didn't generally listen to songs in English. 

Topor slowed down at the intersection with Yubileynaya Street. His rustbucket was a manual, and the gearshift was clearly from a different car: it was too fancy, with a steel ring around the handle. 

“What? You like it?”

Topor noticed he was checking the car out. When the light turned green Topor accelerated so fast that Rzhavyi was pressed to the seat. The car on their right-hand side was left far behind them. 

“Your car?” asked Rzhavyi. “You can do whatever you want to it — it’ll still be a piece of junk.”

“I don’t beat cripples.” Topor glanced at him, flashing his dark eyes from under the visor of his hat. “And my hands are busy. Got it?”

“I’m not a cripple,” Rzhavyi snapped. 

“Then what are you?” Topor made a sharp turn, so fast that the drivers around them probably shat themselves. Rzhavyi thought that if this kept up he was going to hurl. “They’re going to put a cast on your leg and you’ll be on crutches.”

“Keep it up and you’ll be the one who needs the cast.”

Topor grunted, but otherwise didn’t respond. They drove the rest of the way to the emergency room without speaking — Topor turned up the volume on the music, and the only other sounds were the clicking of the turn signals and the roaring engine. Topor didn't sit with Rzhavyi in the waiting room, and Rzhavyi breathed a sigh of relief when the korytnik left him to go smoke. He felt strange around Topor. Rzhavyi didn't know how to talk to him, or whether or not to talk at all, but silence felt so much worse. 

The doctor examined Rzhavyi’s ankle, checking the range of motion. There was no need for an x-ray; it was just a sprain. He probably hadn’t torn any ligaments either. His ankle was tightly bandaged so thickly that it barely fit back in his sneaker. After hearing his cough, the doctor took his temperature and told him to go see the hospital’s internist after they were done, which Rzhavyi ignored. He wasn’t some old grandma who would sit around in hospital waiting rooms all day. He knew what medicine he needed to buy for himself anyway.

The leg injury couldn’t have come at a worse time. The doctor prescribed a couple days of bedrest and told him not to travel any further than the bathroom, but Rzhavyi had a job to do and the gangsters wouldn’t let him take their hard drive home with him. A nondescript goon with the nickname “Blednii” [2] had sourced him a computer with all of the necessary software, located in the mob’s hideout in the suburbs; Rzhavyi had spend the whole week trying to fix the hard drive under the supervision of a gangster with a shaved head who had been assigned to watch him. Rzhavyi didn’t understand why the fuck his minder was there — if Rzhavyi had wanted to steal the data, he’d have done it ages ago, and this idiot would never have noticed. Having the guy watch over him seemed to make Blednii less anxious though, and it wasn’t interfering with his work. 

After today, Rzhavyi wasn’t going to be able to get to the suburbs at all — he had to sort that out. The first step was to get a new phone as soon as possible.

Topor was waiting for him in the hallway. 

“Now what?” he asked when Rzhavyi approached, carefully limping on his injured leg, “Should we go get crutches?”

“I don’t need crutches.” Rzhavyi pushed open the door winced as his ankle — which had momentarily felt better — began to ache again. 

“Let me make a call with your cell phone.”

Topor gave him a thoughtful once over. He was maybe calculating how far Rzhavyi could hobble if he decided to make a dash for it with the phone. 

“Well, aren’t you bold,” he finally replied. “If you don’t watch yourself you’ll be taking the bus home.” It was clear by the way he said it that he didn’t mean it though. Rzhavyi got into the car and slammed the door behind himself, fidgeting in his seat. He was cold wearing only his jacket, and the car had cooled down while they were stuck in the hospital. Maybe he had a fever again. 

“Here,” Topor threw a cell phone into his lap after starting the engine, “Make your call.”

Rzhavyi picked up the beaten-up Samsung and unlocked the small screen. He couldn’t help himself; “What is this piece of crap? Did you inherit this phone from your grandpa?”

“If you don’t like it — don’t use it,” said Topor, focusing on the road. “Do you really want to limp home, or what?”

Rzhavyi didn't answer. He always knew when it was best to keep quiet, but rarely managed it. This time he kept his mouth shut. Topor had actually helped him, and hadn’t asked for anything in return. Yet.

Dead didn't pick up at first. Rzhavyi waited as the phone rang, and then Dead answered in a hoarse voice, “Who is this?”

“Rzhavyi,” he said. “How did you get home yesterday?”

“Why aren’t you calling me from your number?” Dead asked suspiciously. “I’m fine. We shook off the pigs [3] pretty quickly.”

“I lost my fucking phone in the woods,” momentum pressed Rzhavyi back into his seat at the intersection, and then again as they turned right. “Listen, go to the garage and get a new phone for me. If Rodionov isn’t there, tell them that I sent you.”

“Got it,” he mumbled. Was Dead half-asleep, or drunk? “Where should I drop it off?”

“Bring it to my place.” Rzhavyi pressed his free hand on the car door to try and stop himself from being jolted from side to side. “And be there by three, okay? This is time-sensitive.”

“Got it,” repeated Dead. 

Rzhavyi ended the call. He mindlessly fiddled with Topor’s phone, wondering whether or not to call Blednii now or wait until Dead brought the phone. He didn’t really want to make the call where Topor could overhear — Rzhavyi didn’t trust him. 

“What? You want one for yourself?” Topor was watching Rzhavyi fiddle with his phone. He reached over and retrieved it, dropping his hand back to the gearshift. “Well, I'll fix mine, and I’ll give you this one. No need to thank me, I know you don’t know how.”

Rzhavyi turned to look at him. For some reason Rzhavyi was genuinely offended; not because Topor was clearly trying to piss him off, but because he actually thought so little of Rzhavyi.

“What happened to yours?”

He anticipated Topor telling him it was none of his business, but the korytnik waited until they hit a red light before calmly replying. “It broke. I took it to a repair shop where they told me that it’d be easier to buy a new one. As you can see though, my car has mirrors and the windows aren’t held together with tape, so apologies–” he waved the Samsung in Rzhavyi’s face, “You’ll get this piece of shit next month.”

“I can fix it.” 

Rzhavyi shouldn't have offered. After all, he’d fucked up the car for a reason. Everything had been dealt with according to code, and he’d returned the tape deck even though he hadn’t been obliged to. But Topor hadn’t needed to drive him to the hospital, meaning that Rzhavyi was apparently indebted to him - and Rzhavyi didn't like being in debt. 

“Fix it?” asked Topor, pulling into the courtyard. “You mean, tell your goon to nick the same model from someone, and then pass it off to me and pretend you repaired it? Fuck off with that bullshit.”

Rzhavyi didn't have time to respond. Topor slammed on the brakes in the middle of the courtyard, jumped out of the car and walked around it. He pulled the passenger door open loomed over Rzhavyi. He looked surprisingly angry, frowning intensely. 

“Why are you still sitting in my car? Get out.”

“Do you think that all I do is steal phones?” Using the car to steady himself, Ryzhavyi got up out of his seat, coming face-to-face with Topor and almost smacking into him. Topor didn't seem to think to move away. “Who do you think I am?”

“Am I wrong?” Topor placed his hands on the roof of the car on either side of Rzhavyi's shoulders, not giving him room to move away, as if he hadn’t told him to leave a minute ago. “My father’s repair shop is in your garage. I know what they get up to there.” 

“And you’re so fucking honorable, is that it?” Rzhavyi put weight on his injured leg, exhaling through clenched teeth. He added irritably, “And what kind of shop does your father have? Car repair? You got your mirrors replaced there, right?”

“I did. So what?” Topor was clearly not going to back off. He was so close that Rzhavyi saw the moles on his face that he’d forgotten about, the scar on his chin, those lips — the wind pushed a lock of hair into Topor’s mouth, and he spat it out, moving it away with his hand while maintaining eye contact with Rzhavyi, unblinking. 

“Nothing.” Rzhavyi leaned his back against the car, transferring his weight to his uninjured foot. “At night it’s a chop shop. [4] You got your mirrors, Vasya got the engine, and the rest went elsewhere.”

“Are you going to move, or just stand there and gossip?” They both looked to see a disgruntled man leaning out of the window of a _Priora_ , [5] which was pulling up behind Topor’s car. 

“We’ll decide what to do without your fucking help.” Rzhavyi pushed Topor away with a hand on his shoulder. He turned to face the approaching car. “Shut the fuck up and wait your turn, got it?” The man sat back in the car, but before he rolled up the window Rzhavyi distinctly heard him say "Fucking faggots." 

The expression on Topor’s face changed subtly. Rzhavyi felt it in his gut: this was going to be a fucking mess. He could predict these kinds of disasters ahead of time, and recognised a looming outburst from Topor. The korytnik stepped back. He calmly walked up to the stranger’s car and knocked on the window. He carefully bent down so that the driver could see him. Topor’s hair was blocking his face from Rzhavyi’s view. The _Priora_ ’s window slowly rolled down, opening only a few inches before stopping. 

“Will you get out of the car yourself, or will I have to drag you out?” Topor asked genially. 

Rzhavyi tensed. He could slip away quietly, Topor wouldn't even notice. Fuck the phone, it was a shitty model anyway. Who fucking cared if he owed Topor a favor?

But the man hadn’t only called Topor a faggot, he’d insulted both of them.

“Move your car,” the driver was obviously afraid to get out, but continued to pick a fight. “I’m not going to get my hands dirty because of you.”

“Alright.” replied Topor. 

The guy probably believed Topor was done, but Rzhavyi didn’t. Rzhavyi slammed the passenger door shut. He pulled his brass knuckles out of his jacket pocket and made a show of putting them on, making sure that the motherfucker in the car saw him. The guy stared at Rzhavyi, not smart enough to heed the warning, back his car up, and drive away.

Topor struck the side view mirror with his hand. It flew off with a crack.

The man tried to jump out of his car, but Topor slammed the door shut. He picked the shattered mirror up off the ground and shoved it into the gap in the window.

“If I see you again,” he shouted, “I'll fucking shove this up your ass!” If Rzhavyi has been in that idiot’s place, his life would be flashing before his eyes about now. Topor brought his elbow down on the protruding mirror. The window was wedged between shattered from the blow. 

The _Priora_ ’s engine squealed wildly; it jerked forward, almost ramming into Topor’s car, and then reversed, taking with it the smashed up mirror and the man’s terrified face. Topor stared after it, clenching his fists. The car flew out onto the street, and Rzhavyi remained standing by Topor’s car with his brass knuckles still on, trying to figure out what he’d just witnessed. 

If, when insulted, Topor could knock a side mirror off a car with his bare hands — or, more accurately, with a single bare hand — what else was he capable of? Maybe shoving that side mirror up someone’s ass like he’d threatened? 

“Get back in the car,” Topor turned to him, catching sight of Rzhavyi’s brass knuckles and the way he’d adjusted the hat on his head, ready for a fight. “Let’s go.”

Rzhavyi shoved the brass knuckles back into his pocket. From here, he could have limped home, but his leg ached and Topor seemed to have blown off some steam busting up the _Priora_.

“I bought the mirrors myself,” Topor said, getting in the car and starting the engine. “Directly from the manufacturers. It's all clean. I don’t get involved in my father's affairs. I only help if he asks.”

”So if he asked you to like, chop up a stolen car it wouldn’t be your call?” asked Rzhavyi. 

“Did I tell you that I take part in that?” snapped Topor. 

“Fine.” Rzhavyi scratched at the scab on his temple and leaned back in his seat, adjusting to sit in a more comfortable position. “Forget it. If you don’t believe me, I’ll fix your phone in front of you.”

”All by yourself?”

Topor stopped his car outside the entrance to Rzhavyi’s building, and looked at him incredulously. 

“By myself.” Rzhavyi replied. “First I just need to figure out what’s wrong with it. Maybe all the components are fried, or maybe there’s some stupid system error. If you’d like you can bring it by this evening. I’m not trekking up to you on the fifth floor.”

“You are being weirdly friendly” Topor tapped his fingers on the leather-covered steering wheel, a hint of a smile on his face. “Did they give you, like, a sedative at the hospital?” 

Another car pulled up behind them, but the driver just calmly waited for them to move, not even flashing his headlights. 

“You did me a favor.” Rzhavyi explained, carefully choosing to not say outright ‘I owe you one.’

”So it’s all simply according to your code?” there was a kind of sad smile in Topor’s voice, “You don’t owe me anything.”

”Why not?”

Topor looked at him unsmilingly. His hair was no longer tucked behind his ears, now it framed his face in dark waves. He looked just like the portrait on the wall of Rzhavyi’s art classroom. He had no idea who the man in the painting was, didn’t know why he’d remembered it now, or why he wanted to look at Topor’s strange face, dark eyes, and large nose. Just look at him, and say nothing.

  


_Portrait on the wall - Portrait of Vincenzo Mosti_

“Because it’s the normal thing to do,” Topor looked back at him, leaning his cheek against the headrest. “To do what you want and not expect anything in return.”

Rzhavyi blinked. Theoretically, what Topor was saying made sense, but it was going right over Rzhavyi’s head. He just continued to stare. His temperature had probably risen to about thirty nine degrees. [6] Maybe even forty. He felt dreary and hot, and his face felt flushed. 

Topor moved forward — maybe wanting to look between the seats at the driver of the car waiting behind them. The car just flashed its headlights, reminding them that it was waiting. 

And then the car’s horn screeched. Topor froze. 

“I’m serious about the mobile phone.” Rzhavyi lowered his head and fiddled with his seatbelt buckle. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the korytnik clench the gearshift with his fingers. “Bring it over.”

He stepped out of the car and onto the cold street, not looking back at Topor. He walked around the back of the car, and into the stuffy warmth of the stairway, climbing to the first floor. His mother opened the door for him smelling of booze. She never drank alone, meaning that his father had arrived home from work early and had already managed to get both of them hammered. Rzhavyi didn't care. About either of them. His insides were shaking, and his hands were trembling, as if he’d been the one to down the bottle of fake vodka, and was now suffering with a hangover. 

Only he hadn't drank anything. He didn't know why he felt so messed up. He only knew that it started when he’d remembered that fucking man in that portrait; when Topor had started talking about ‘doing what you want to do.’

“Ah, look at him, ma!” his father drunkenly yelled from the kitchen. “He’s returned. You’re living the high life, you runt. First you had a mobile phone delivered to the house, and now you’ve been dropped off in a fucking car, like a fucking politician.”

Rzhavyi gritted his teeth, repeating his mantra to himself, the one that had served him with varying success for ten years: ‘I don't hear you, I can't hear, I can't hear, I can't hear.’ A new mobile phone was sitting on the chair in front of the TV, with a full battery and functional SIM card; Dead had come through with what he needed. His father wasn’t shutting up, and Rzhavyi went out of the apartment into the stairwell to talk to Blednii. Luckily, he had the number memorized. It was a fancy number — all zeros, threes and sevens. [7]

Rzhavyi described the situation with his leg, and Blednii said that he’d send a car for him the next day, to pick him up and drop him off. After hanging up, Rzhavyi took a moment to just breathe, and then tried to smoke a cigarette. He got halfway through before a coughing fit prevented him from finishing it.

He chalked it up to not having bought any meds.

In his jacket pockets were a couple crumpled bills. The pharmacy was only on the other the end of Rzhavyi's building, but the walk there felt infinitely fucking far. By the time Rzhavyi returned home his leg felt unbearable. He swallowed a handful of the pills — a few from each packet — and then ate some dried fish and boiled potatoes. His father was passed out in his chair, and his mother was sleeping in the bedroom. 

The kitchen looked as if someone had strewn bottles, food scraps, and dirty dishes around with abandon. Even though Rzhavyi had grown up with this shit, he still couldn't stand it. He piled plates in the sink, shoved the bottles into the trash can, and threw out the leftovers. He poured himself some scaldingly hot tea, and sat down at the table on the stool in the corner.

He passed out there with his head in his hands. He woke to someone ringing the doorbell. 

Topor was waiting on the doorstep for the second time that day.

“Here’s the phone.” he handed Rzhavyi a brand-new “Nokia” slider phone. “Can you fix it?” 

Rzhavyi nodded, taking the phone from him and sliding it open. I made a noise, the screen blinked, and then it shut off entirely.

“It also isn’t good at receiving calls.” complained Topor. “Well, that is, it will show an incoming call, but it won’t pick up. And the speaker goes in and out.”

“Got it.” Rzhavyi rubbed his eyes with his fists and yawned, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. “I'll see what I can do.”

Topor put his hands in his pockets. He peered into the dark corridor behind Rzhavyi, when his father, finally regaining consciousness, cursed and demanded that the door be closed. He complained about a draft, and then passed out again. Or at least that is what Rzhavyi guessed — and hoped — since his father was quiet once again. 

“Save my number,” Topor told him. “So you don’t have to hike up to the fifth floor if you need somethin’.”

“Like what?” Rzhavyi didn't understand. He wasn’t thinking straight after the nap, combined with the pills and the fever.

“Just in case. Or give me yours,” Topor pulled the small Samsung out of his pocket. It looked ridiculously tiny in his hand — he could probably press half the buttons at once with one thumb. “What are you laughing at?”

“Nothin’,” Rzhavyi told him. But he added, after a pause, “Alright, I’ll give you my number.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please welcome SleepingPatterns, a new addition to our translation team! Thank you for joining us and contributing to this work!
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Art for original fic:_   
>  [Guys by aldo-n-canp](https://aldo-n-canp.tumblr.com/post/180862243533/%D1%80%D0%B6%D0%B0%D0%B2%D1%8B%D0%B9-%D1%82%D0%BE%D0%BF%D0%BE%D1%80)
> 
> Footnotes
> 
> (1) "London is the Capital of Great Britain" - In a Russian context this would be considered a joke, as this is the first phrase that almost every single student would learn in English class. [ return to text ]
> 
> (2) Blednii - nickname/street name literally means "pale" [ return to text ]
> 
> (3) pigs - cops, literally, "garbage" [ return to text ]
> 
> (4) chop shop - place where stolen cars are taken apart and sold for parts. [ return to text ]
> 
> (5) Priora - Model of car. Same make (Lada) as Ren's. Because they are all from the same factory [ return to text ]
> 
> (6) thirty nine degrees - celsius. a high fever. [ return to text ]
> 
> (7) It was a fancy number — all zeros, threes and sevens. - A vanity phone number, something like 000333777. Similar to a vanity car license plate. [ return to text ]


	6. The Mobile Phone

A week later, Rzhavyi had picked apart the hard drive and almost recovered all of the files. His cold was now only an occasional cough and runny nose. The swelling on his leg had gone down — it didn't hurt anymore — and his face had also healed. Rzhavyi recovered everything he could from the corrupted file system, digging through it, simultaneously getting drunk on cold medicine. He even fell asleep in the car on the way home once, with one of the Blednii’s henchmen driving him. 

He was paid so well for the job that at first he didn’t believe his eyes. The tight, dense bundle of cash almost warmed his hand. Rzhavyi pulled off the rubber band, licked his finger and counted, just in case. The bills were new and crisp, and if you sniffed them, they would probably smell of freshly printed ink. He didn’t though. Sticking his nose into his earnings in front of Blednii and his guards was definitely not worth it. 

“Vladimir Leonidovich wants to see you,” Blednii said unhappily. “Come on.”

Rzhavyi could guess who Vladimir Leonidovich was. Blednii had spoke with him once on the phone within earshot. Rzhavyi had heard the name, and understood that he was the local higher-up. Blednii reported to him on the job’s progress, which made it obvious to Rzhavyi that the situation was fucking dire, as the Boss had kept a close eye on it personally. 

It was strange that Blednii addressed him using his full name and patronymic. Weird. Didn't this Vladimir Leonidovich have some kind of codename? [1]

“This way.” Blednii stopped in front of the double doors at the end of the corridor. “Address Vladimir Leonidovich using formal pronouns, understood?” [2]

“Got it.” 

The gangsters had set up this “office” in a gated community outside of the city, surrounded by gaudy brick “cottages” that were built there in the late nineties. The privacy fence that separated the property rose over two meters high and the entry gate swung open mechanically. Guard dogs were chained up outside, and surveillance cameras pointed in every direction. Inside the house everything was predictably covered in gold, wood and marble. Rzhavyi had worked in what appeared to be a library on the ground floor; now he was two floors up, opening the double doors that Blednii had led him to.

Rzhavyi pushed on one of the doors and it swung open without a sound. Blednii followed him into the room.

The space was massive — Rzhavyi’s entire shithole of an apartment would probably have fit inside it. His main room, kitchen and washroom would have fit for sure. The room he was in now was really dark; heavy curtains covered the windows, the floor seemed to be granite, and the walls were grey. Across the room was a huge and almost unoccupied table. The one man sitting at the head was ancient. He was bald and wrinkled, but he cut an imposingly large figure.

“Hi,” Rzhavyi greeted him.

He stopped a few feet short of the table. There were no other chairs around it in a seemingly deliberate move to make any visitors as uncomfortable as possible.

Rzhavyi wasn’t intimidated even though he stuck out like a sore thumb. He stood there in this extravagant and gloomy office in his sweatpants, dirty sneakers, and cozy sweater. He should probably tidy his hair, which had stuck itself to his forehead, but he stopped himself before his hand could do more than twitch. He didn't want the old man to interpret it as nerves.

“Good day.” The Boss’ eyes were clouded with cataracts, but his gaze was focused. “You did a good job. Well done.”

The old man didn’t look like your typical mobster. He came off more as a teacher or professor, speaking smoothly as if reading from a book. Rzhavyi was not fooled about the nature of the Boss’ work; Vladimir Leonidovich's men were brutal. 

“I did the job," he said, “I said I'd recover the files, and I got ‘em.” 

There was a scar on the Boss’ head. The cut had been deep, but was long healed. It stretched from neck to forehead, cutting across his cheek and chin. It looked as if it had been cut with a blunt knife. The scar contorted the right side of his face, and the corner of his mouth twisted downwards.

“I appreciate your work ethic,” Vladimir Leonidovich said in a soft voice, “Remind me of your name.”

Rzhavyi didn’t know what the Boss’ intentions were, and he didn’t like it. All he wanted was to get the hell out of here and deposit his wad of cash at the bank. He couldn’t keep that kind of money at home. His father would find it and then he could kiss his cash goodbye. 

“Rzhavyi.”

“Rzhavyi,” the Boss repeated back to him, folding his pale, wrinkled fingers together. His gold signet rings stood out against the green tablecloth. “And what is your given name?”

“Who wants to know?” Rzhavyi shifted his weight on his feet. “That’s the name I go by.”

Vladimir Leonidovich didn’t reply. The room became eerily quiet. Rzhavyi could hear the ticking of a clock — it was made of malachite, the president had one just like it — and Blednii’s hoarse breathing on his neck. Rzhavyi began second guessing the curtness of his reply.

“Fine,” Vladimir Leonidovich nodded, finally breaking his piercing gaze. “Do you work somewhere? Study?”

“Something like that,” Rzhavyi answered evasively. The conversation was putting him on edge. 

“And that’s how you support yourself?” The Boss asked. “Just ‘like that?’”

Behind Rzhavyi’s back, Blednii snorted softly.

“What do you want? My memoir?” Rzhavyi stuck his hands in his pants pockets and sniffed, trying to ignore the jab. “I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

Vladimir Leonidovich smiled. It had a disturbing effect on his face, twisting it further around his scar, upper lip drawing back to reveal teeth. Maybe at one point he had been a teacher, but he wouldn’t fit that role now. If he was administering your exam, you’d shit your pants before you even got your ticket. [3]

“Well, aren’t you a wise guy.” The Boss looked Rzhavyi once over, from his haircut to his sneakers, and then looked behind him at Blednii. “So, Sergey, where do you say you found him?” [4]

”On Ofitserskaya Street. In one of the garages,” said Blednii.

Rzhavyi frowned. They were talking about him as if he was some kind of spare part that Blednii found while scrounging through the trash on his balcony. [5] He was uncomfortable. Rzhavyi’s fingers found a piece of paper in his pocket — a wrapper or receipt of some kind — and he rubbed it between his fingers, staring at the presidential-looking clock on the Boss’ table.

“What an intriguing place.” Vladimir Leonidovich looked at Rzhavyi again, his gaze intense. “Well, Rzhavyi, you may go. Sergey will show you out.”

Rzhavyi bid his goodbyes, and Blednii silently followed him all the way to the gate, where the Volvo with the tinted windows was waiting for them, the same one that Rzhavyi had ridden in previously. At this point he was able to get around just fine, but Blednii had sent a car for him every day regardless. 

“Get in.”

Sergey opened the car door. Rzhavyi looked inside before climbing in — the only person in the car was the driver, which calmed Rzhavyi down a little. They weren’t going to off him right then and there. Sitting in the back seat behind the driver, Rzhavyi pressed his folded hands between his knees, second-guessing whether or not he should have got himself involved in all of this. But the job description hadn’t exactly said that he would be working for the mob, and they’d promised him a lot of money. They’d not just promised that kind of cash, but they’d delivered. If they wanted to get rid of him, why would they have paid him? Or did they pay him just to placate him? So that he’d leave quietly?

When Blednii sat in the back seat across from him, Rzhavyi’s whole body clenched up. He didn't comprehend anything he recovered from that hard drive. All he saw were Excel spreadsheets filled with color-coded sums, followed by a crazy number of zeros. He guessed that it was some kind of bookkeeping, but he couldn’t have known any more than that. 

“Go,” Blednii told the driver. 

The car started up, and Rzhavyi stared ahead. The iron gate crawled open, and the orange indicator light above it blinked. It was snowing. Would his life really end in such a stupid way? Rzhavyi sometimes thought that his next fight could be his last — that he would get so messed up that they wouldn’t be able to help him at the hospital — but at least in that case it would be for a cause. But now? Would they really kill him over a bunch of numbers? Numbers that he didn’t even understand? Did they think his memory was so good that he’d be able to recall anything for the cops under interrogation?

He hadn’t even had a chance to give Topor his phone back. That was a shame. He’d even fixed it, it was as good as new. 

“What’s so funny?”

Blednii was staring at him. 

“What, should I be crying?” Rzhavyi pursed his lips, hiding a smile. “For you? I’d never.” 

As the car went around the corner, Sergey lunged, pressing him back into the seat. Blednii was worked up. His fingers wrapped around Rzhavyi's throat like a vice, and Rzhavyi felt something cold pressing at his cheekbone. Squinting down he saw the matte black handle of a gun. 

“Maybe I should just kill you here, huh?” Sergey's eyes were wild, and a vein twitched at his temple. He was young, five years older than Rzhavyi at most. Rzhavyi wanted to reply, but he would have sounded pathetic due to his compressed windpipe. He said nothing, only looking into Blednii’s eyes, unblinking. 

Sergey shoved off of him. He wiped his hand on his pants disdainfully — as if by touching Rzhavyi he’d gotten shit on it — and shoved the piece back under his leather jacket. 

“Got your orders, huh?” asked Rzhavyi. “Not allowed. What a pity.”

That got him a punch in the teeth. The blow Blednii dealt him was professional, but he couldn’t get the leverage in the car for too hard of a hit. 

“Watch your step.”

His recently-healed lip split open again. Rzhavyi swallowed, turning away and seeing his face reflected in the car window — he looked pale, with dark circles under his eyes and his mouth covered in blood. They drove along Yubileynii Street, familiar houses and billboards flashing along the sides of the road. He was still alive. Had he survived? 

“Hold up,” Sergey said, when the driver pulled the Volvo up to Rzhavyi’s stop.

Rzhavyi let go of the door handle. The sun had long ago set. In the darkness, neon-green light from a nearby pharmacy illuminated Blednii’s face. 

“You're not stupid, huh?” asked Blednii. “So I’ll be brief. If you gab about this to anyone — no matter who, when, where or how — your mother and father will pay. You don't have a girl, but if you get one, we'll punish her too. Got it?”

Rzhavyi suddenly remembered the cash, pressing red-hot against his side through his jacket pocket and sweater. He had the impulse to take the wad out, throw it at Blednii and flee the vehicle. But that wouldn't change anything; it wouldn't erase the files from his memory, and gangsters never forget. 

“Understood,” he answered, looking at Sergey. “Can I leave yet? Or do you want me to stick around longer to chat?”

”Get out.”

The bank on the other end of the street was closed for the night and Rzhavyi didn't have his passport on him anyway. [6] At home, he waited for his mother to go to bed, and for his father to head out for the night shift. He pulled back the corner of a sofa cushion and jammed the wad of cash deep into the space between the armrest and the seat. It was late, but Rzhavyi wasn’t tired. He brushed his teeth and washed the dried blood from his lips and chin. He went to look for a beer in the fridge. He found a bottle of Okhota that had gone flat; opened and then subsequently forgotten. Better than nothing. He couldn’t buy anything now anyway. [7]

He remembered that it was Friday, meaning that his crew was getting hammered at the garage. Should he go join them? Rzhavyi grimaced, taking a bite of the sandwich he had assembled out of some leftovers. His lip ached, and the tip of his tongue hurt too; he’d split them open on his teeth when Blednii hit him. The roulette that he’d sliced for his sandwich seemed to have gone off, it tasted awful. [8]

Rzhavyi realized as he tied his shoelaces that he didn't want to go spend time with his friends. The Boss’ voice echoed in his head, describing the garage as ‘an intriguing place.’ What did he mean by that? There was nothing of interest about it, Rzhavyi was sure of that.

Oh, and he hadn’t given Topor back his phone. There was that.

Back in his room, Rzhavyi pulled the Nokia out of the table drawer. Drawing back the curtains, he looked out into the courtyard and started counting windows. The building was at an angle and he had a good view. 

The korytnik had a light on in his apartment. 

Rzhavyi dashed across the courtyard, only realizing when standing outside of Topor’s door that he should have called first. Maybe the korytnik had a woman over that he was banging?

So what if he did? 

Rzhavyi rang the bell, and Topor answered right away. He was dressed to go out, wearing camouflage pants and a leather jacket buttoned all the way up to his throat. He was wearing sneakers in place of his usual combat boots. [9]

“Have you come to hang out?” Topor was just standing there at the door, smiling as if glad to see him.

“Nah,” Rzhavyi told him. “I repaired your phone.”

“Ah.” Topor took the phone, turning it over in his hands, pressing the buttons idly, but not doing anything to check if it actually worked. “And here I thought you’d already sold it for parts.”

“What parts would I sell?” Rzhavyi scowled. The korytnik really was an asshole after all. “I replaced almost all of them anyway.”

“I was kidding,” Topor replied softly. “I didn't think you’d actually stolen it.”

Rzhavyi had more than one comeback on the tip of his tongue, but he kept his mouth shut. He’d done enough posturing for one day. He was tired. He didn't want to squabble with Topor after having been threatened by a gun. 

“Ok. Forget it.”

Topor’s eyebrows twitched up, as if surprised. What did he expect? That his joke was going to get him a punch in the face?

“Well, thanks.” Topor stuck the phone in his pants pocket and ran his hand through his hair, pushing it back off his face ineffectively. His heavy curls just fell back into place. He either needed a hair elastic to hold them all back, or to just cut all his hair off. Why did he need so much hair anyway? Why would he grow it out that long? 

Rzhavyi couldn’t understand why he kept staring at the korytnik. The only sound in the stairwell was the crackling of the lightbulb overhead, which flickered as if it was on its last legs.

“I’d invite you in for a beer,” Topor stopped smoothing his hair back and met Rzhavyi’s gaze. “But I’m busy tonight. What about tomorrow?”

Rzhavyi nodded. Tomorrow it was, then. Even though he wanted today. He felt oddly offended — either by his own reaction or by Topor’s, he wasn’t sure. He should have just gotten drunk with his crew in the garage. He could have gotten smashed, drank beer or vodka, and taken a night off from thinking about the mob and their accounting. Rzhavyi didn’t know why he’d even come here in the first place, and that was pissing him off. 

“What are you up to tonight?” He asked Topor. “Gonna go jack the wheels off some cars?”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” The korytnik narrowed his eyes, resting his elbow on the door frame. “Tonight I’ve got to kick Damirian’s ass. He beat me last week, which I don’t like.”

“What do you mean by ‘kick his ass’?”

“Not the way you’re thinking,” said Topor irritably. “I don’t punch people for fun. Wanna come watch? Let's go.”

He blurted out the invitation at top speed, as if Rzhavyi — or some invisible interloper — would interrupt him. Rzhavyi blinked, not knowing where to start: where were they going? What was he supposed to watch? Damirian had beaten Topor? What did that Armenian from the Sverdlov Street kiosk have to do with anything? Was this a car thing? 

Topor didn't wait for his response. He grabbed his keys and hat from the shelf by the door, steering Rzhavyi aside with a hand on his shoulder. He slammed his apartment door shut and locked it, dashing down the stairs.

“Why are you still standing there?” Topor’s head poked out from the fourth floor landing, peering up at Rzhavyi from under the visor of his hat. “What, you want a formal invitation? Stamped and sealed? [10] I’ll see if I can have it arranged for next time, but for now you’ll just have to go without.” 

Rzhavyi felt himself smile. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have, but Topor had grinned at him first. He felt his split lip ache and tasted copper. He followed Topor out into the courtyard, climbed into the cold car, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His knuckles came away bloody.

“There's a first-aid kit in the backseat,” Topor said, starting the engine. “Maybe you can find something to stanch the bleeding. Take a look while the car warms up.”

Rzhavyi turned to search for it. The back seat was covered in god only knows what. Reaching back as best as he could, Rzhavyi started searching through the mess. Topor turned on the overhead light and put on some music. 

Rzhavyi spotted the first-aid kit — a small plastic case with a red cross on the front — under a pile of magazines, empty beer cans and candy wrappers. He grabbed it just as Topor hit the gas. Rzhavyi was knocked forwards, and then to the side, as the car navigated its way out of the courtyard. Topor grabbed him and held him in place, one hand firmly on his shoulder.

“Come on, settle in,” he said. 

Rzhavyi sat back in his seat, put on his seatbelt, and opened the first-aid kit on his lap. Inside were dressings and band-aids, and nestled between were condoms, sticking out in their shiny packages. As he tore off a piece of gauze, the image popped into Rzhavyi’s mind of how Topor might fuck a girl in this car. The two of them would eat candy and drink beer, and then Topor would speak to her the same way he spoke to Rzhavyi, “Come on, settle in.”

Or maybe he says nothing. He definitely wouldn’t freeze up when she got a hand in his pants.

“Oi,” Topor reached out and snapped his fingers under Rzhavyi’s nose, running a yellow light, “Are you broken, or what? You need the hospital again?”

“I’m fine.” Rzhavyi tossed the first-aid kit onto the backseat and twisted the gauze in his hands into a bloody lump. “So what’s the deal with this Damirian? Are you going to race him or something?”

“Kind of,” grunted Topor, and then he smiled broadly, glancing at Rzhavyi. “You’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER FOOTNOTES
> 
> (1) patronymic - Russians have a type of middle name, based on the name of their father, called a patronymic. If you have a very formal relationship with someone, you address them by their full first name and their patronymic, as Blednii has done here. [More info about Russian names](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367092/chapters/53436760) [ return to text ]
> 
> (2) formal pronouns - Russian, much like French, uses the second person plural pronoun as a formal address. You would use this when speaking to your boss, your teacher, or someone that you have a respectful or distant relationship with, such as an elder or a stranger. [ return to text ]
> 
> (3) If he was administering your exam, you’d shit your pants before you even got your ticket. - Most Russian students take exams orally, instead of a written exam like in the West. You are allowed to pick your "ticket," or exam question, at random from a selection of pieces of paper on a desk. You then tell your answer directly to the examiner. [ return to text ]
> 
> (4) Sergey - Blednii is very clearly a nickname, and so we are learning his real name, Sergey, from Vladimir Leonidovich. [ return to text ]
> 
> (5) Balcony - Russian balconies are generally sealed off and used as storage space." [ return to text ]
> 
> (6) Passport - Russians have two kinds of passports, a foreign one — for travel abroad, like we have in the West — and a domestic one that functions as ID. You need your domestic passport to do anything official, like banking.[ return to text ]
> 
> (7) He couldn't buy anything now anyway - Russian stores are officially not allowed to sell alcohol after about 10 or 11pm. (With a bit of effort, you can generally find somewhere that will sell you a bottle though.)[ return to text ]
> 
> (8) roulette - Picture an oversized hot dog -- a generously sized cross between spam and a sausage. [ return to text ]
> 
> (9) Dressed to go out - Most Russian have "home clothing" that they wear around the house — something comfy, but maybe frumpy — and nicer clothing that they wear outside. Topor is clearly wearing his fancier outdoor clothing. [ return to text ]
> 
> (10) Stamped and sealed - Official seals and stamps on Russian documents are incredibly important. In order to go about your day, you may need a stamped piece of paper from almost anyone, ranging from the local librarian to the state authorities. [ return to text ]


	7. The Drift Race

Rzhavyi had no idea what to talk about. He probably should have asked where they were going, or maybe about Topor’s grandfather, who worked in a factory. Maybe he should strike up a conversation about the car? Sitting in the passenger seat, Rzhavyi ran through the possibilities in his head. He hardly knew anything about Topor, meaning that he could have started almost anywhere. He knew he should just chose one thing to talk about, but each time he decided, whatever he’d chosen seemed stupid the moment before he opened his mouth. 

So Rzhavyi stayed silent, staring out at the road; Topor scanned through the radio stations before sticking a homemade CD into the player, turning up the volume. Rzhavyi didn't understand the lyrics; the bass boomed so intensely that the floor vibrated beneath his feet. 

Topor was tapping the rhythm with his fingers on the steering wheel. He was smiling. 

“We're gonna make a stop near Kurchatov Boulevard, alright?” Topor abruptly shouted over music. “And then we’ll head to the racetrack.”

Rzhavyi didn't want to yell back; his throat was still raw from his cold. He nodded, making sure that Topor saw him out of the corner of his eye, and then returned to staring out the window. Topor turned off of Yubileynaya Street and pulled up next to an apartment block and parked the car. He let Ryzhavyi know that he would “be right back,” and disappeared into the building.

Were they here to pick up a friend? Or his girlfriend? Rzhavyi didn’t have to wonder for long. 

A girl dashed out of the building. She was thin, wearing tight jeans and a waist-length puffer jacket. She had a messy bun perched on the top of her head, which bounced absurdly as she ran towards the car. She opened the passenger door and started when she saw Rzhavyi sitting there. 

“Oh!” She looked surprised to see him. “Hi!”

So, girlfriend then. She was cute, but looked really young. She couldn’t be older than fifteen. How old was Topor? Rzhavyi didn't know for sure, but as he’d finished his army service he had to be at least twenty. He looked older than that though.

“Alright,” Topor walked up behind her and put his hand on her shoulder. “Go on and climb in back.”

“No way!” The girl turned around to face Topor, her denim-clad ass in Rzhavyi’s face. She started whining. “Renat, no! I'm gonna get carsick!” 

Hearing Topor called by his first name was strange. This chick didn’t call him by his nickname? Rzhavyi was about to get out of the car — he didn’t like hearing women bitch and complain. Where he sat didn’t matter to him; the ride was rough regardless. 

“You’d better not barf,” snapped Topor. “Get in.” 

Topor opened the back door for her, clearly putting an end to the argument. The girl grumbled, huffing loudly. She got in the back seat, immediately leaning forward to wedge herself between them. 

Without even looking, Topor put his hand on her forehead and tried to push her back.

“Damn it! Sit back and buckle up.”

“But, we haven't even moved yet! Let go of me-e-e!”

The girl put up a fight but Topor kept pushing her back. Rzhavyi silently watched the scene play out, shifting away from the center console so that her hand — which was clinging on to the seat — wouldn’t touch him. It was pretty funny to watch. The korytnik and this girl were roughhousing more than arguing, which was apparent because if Topor had really wanted, he could easily have shoved the girl back in her seat. 

“Fine, screw you.” Topor retrieved his hand and hit the gas. The girl not only managed to hold on, but leaned further forward. “So?” Topor asked, “Did you two introduce yourselves?” 

“No,” Rzhavyi replied. He didn’t understand why Topor didn’t have his girlfriend sitting in Rzhavyi’s place. She’d asked to sit up front, so why was she in the back seat? Had she done something wrong? Or she was so clingy that she’d pissed him off? He could have just told her to shut up and then had his hand on her knee the whole drive there. He wasn’t going to get that with Rzhavyi sitting up front.

“Rzhavyi meet Reyhan,” Topor shifted gears, accelerating down the empty street. “She’s my sister.” 

She looked nothing like Topor. Her face was round, with a small nose. Her lips looked different too. Reyhan smiled sheepishly at Rzhavyi before looking away. Was she shy or something? She giggled and blushed.

“Hey, Rzhavyi,” said Topor. “What's your real name?”

Rzhavyi hated his name. It sounded soft and wimpy — it might as well have been a girl’s name. The full thing — when he didn’t shorten it — sounded even worse. [1] His father used the name as a weapon; he’d christened Rzhavyi in honor of his grandfather, and took every opportunity to remind him that he didn’t live up to his name.

“That's what I’m called — Rzhavyi.” He turned away, not looking at Topor or his sister. “What, is your memory shit?”

“Don't start,” sighed Topor. “Rzhavyi it is.”

An awkward silence descended in the car. Topor hadn’t turned the music back on. If Rzhavyi had known that they’d be picking up Topor’s sister, he wouldn’t have come along. He wasn’t sure why he felt so pissy. Reyhan seemed like a normal teenage girl. Could be worse. 

“Renat,” Reyhan poked Topor, resting her chin on his shoulder, “There are two cans of beer back here.” 

“Do you want Dad to nail your bedroom door shut?” Topor asked. “You can't have any.”

“But I’ll chew gum afterwards. And I’ll hold my breath all night!” Reyhan gave him puppy eyes.

Rzhavyi didn't want to watch them bicker. He didn’t want to smile either, but Reyhan was funny and Topor spoke to her as if he was her disappointed camp counsellor. 

“I’m not wasting a whole can on you.” Topor turned sharply, and Reyhan squealed as if on a roller coaster, as she was thrown back in her seat. “Better give it to Rzhavyi.” 

Reyhan wedged herself between their seats again and silently shoved a can of  _ Baltika  _ into Rzhavyi’s hand. She glared at him. Her flashing dark eyes matched Topor’s, and with that arrogant glare he saw the family resemblance.

Rzhavyi opened the can. The beer was warm from sitting in the car, and it spilled over onto his fingers. Foam dripped onto the rubber mat at his feet. While Topor checked his side mirror to change lanes, Rzhavyi wiped the rim of the can with his sleeve and handed the  _ Baltika _ to Reyhan. He wasn’t sure whether he did it to get a rise out of Topor, or to finally wipe the sad look off of Reyhan’s face.

“The fuck are you doing?” Topor spotted the hand-off, but couldn’t stop them — Reyhan quickly withdrew behind Rzhavyi’s seat and loudly sipped the  _ Baltika _ . “I’ll kick the two of you out right now! And the beer stays with me!”

Reyhan giggled. Topor frowned as they pulled onto the highway on-ramp. He stared at Rzhavyi but didn’t protest further. Reyhan returned the beer after a couple of sips — so she was decent at least — and wedged her way back between the seats, gossiping about school, her friends, and a birthday party that she attended last weekend. Rzhavyi listened to her half-heartedly, staring out at the road. Topor asked her questions occasionally, and when he laughed, Rzhavyi felt himself smile.

The  _ Baltika _ was tasty.

They drove out of the city. In a snowy field just off the highway, a collection of headlights and taillights glowed. Topor slowed down, navigating between the other vehicles, turning left and right. There was a group of young people hanging around a diverse range of cars; some were the same make as Topor’s; others were old junkers with a few foreign cars mixed in. Even with Topor’s windows rolled up you could hear the music pounding away outside. A wide, circular track had been rolled in the snow, surrounded by snow banks and lanterns. A crowd was cheering on a car as it whipped around the track, spraying snow as it went. 

They found a spot between a green Model Six and a dirty white _Priora,_ and Topor cut the engine. Reyhan leapt out of the car — not waiting for her brother — and dashed towards the lights and crowd. [2]

“Do me a favor,” Topor turned to Rzhavyi, serious and unsmiling. “Keep an eye on Reyhan, will you? I try to watch her myself but she’s a little sneak. Make sure no one tries anything or slips her drinks?”

“Why did you bring her if you have to watch her?” 

Rzhavyi put his empty beer can in the side door pocket. Is that why Topor had invited him? To babysit his sister? Well wasn’t that perfect. Rzhavyi felt offended, but knew he was being ridiculous. Why else would Topor have asked him to come along?

“She begged me,” said Topor shortly. “Do you mind?” 

Up ahead, lit by the collective headlights, Reyhan was already chatting with a muscular chick, who was wearing — for some crazy reason — silver stiletto boots and shiny pants. She reminded Rzhavyi of railway tracks — flat, boxy, and infinitely long. In her boots she stood at least a head taller than all of the men around her.

“Sure,” said Rzhavyi. 

Topor broke into a smile. Two guys emerged from the crowd and started to walk towards Topor’s car. One waved as he tried to peer inside.

“I’ve got a race in an hour,” Topor spoke quickly, watching Rzhavyi intently. “Normally I like to drive alone, but you…” He faltered, blinked, and bit his lip, “Do you want to ride along? You'll like it. I think you will.” 

He seemed nervous. Rzhavyi couldn’t remember seeing Topor nervous before. Was he worried about his shitty car? Or about his sister? Why would he ask Rzhavyi to ride along if he liked to drive alone?

One of the approaching guys caught sight of the korytnik in his car.

“Topor! What are you doing?” He shouted. “Get out here!” 

Topor opened the door. He briefly hugged both men, slapping them each on the back. It didn’t make sense to stay in the car, so Rzhavyi climbed out; it was cold, windy, and the music was deafeningly loud. His eardrums rang as if he was at a dance club instead of a field in the middle of nowhere. He put his hands in his pockets, looking around. A couple of checkered flags were sitting on the hood of a nearby car, looking like the ones used for real races. A hookah pipe was set up in the open trunk of another nearby car — a small group stood around it smoking. Reyhan was where they’d left her, only now a short guy had joined her and her friend. On closer inspection, Rzhavyi recognized the curly-haired man as Damirian.

“This is Rzhavyi,” he heard Topor introduce him. Topor raised his voice, turning to Rzhavyi, “We live nearby. He’s my neighbor” 

“Sup Rzhavyi,” Topor's buddy — a short-haired blond — gave him a nod.

Rzhavyi walked around the car to join them. The blonde had a firm handshake. He turned to greet Topor’s other friend, but didn’t catch his name. Both of them were well built; broad-shouldered and tall, as if they’d been made from the same mold at a factory, but had had different heads stuck on. They were the type to be packing heat; not because they were in the mob, but because they stood their ground.

“We'll be right there,” said Topor. “Don’t give Reyhan any drinks.”

“No worries,” the blonde clapped him on the shoulder. “Your lil’ sis will be fine.” 

Judging by Topor’s expression, he had his doubts. Topor watched his buddies rejoin the group, making sure no one handed Reyhhan a beer. He pulled a crumpled pack of Kent cigarettes from the pocket of his leather jacket.

“Want one? 

Rzhavyi took one of the cigarettes, clamping it between his teeth while Topor rummaged through his pockets for a lighter, with no luck. Rzhavyi pulled out his own, leaning over to light Topor’s cigarette.

The wind extinguished the flame immediately.

Topor leaned in. He pressed his hands against Rzhavyi’s as a shield, tilting his head and inhaling as he tried to light his cigarette. The flame was reflected in his eyes, flashing brightly from under his thick lashes. Rzhavyi thought they looked just like a girl’s. The tip of his cigarette glowed, then grew brighter. Topor slowly removed his hands. Straightening up, he exhaled smoke to the side.

Rzhavyi lit his own cigarette on his second try. His fingers were frozen and not entirely in his control. 

“I need to go check over a car.” Topor nodded towards the edge of the field, where a couple of garage structures stood in the distance. A car with the hood popped waited under one of the bright lanterns. “Go hang out with Reyhan while you wait? I'll come get you later. You’ll ride along with me for the race, right?”

“Yeah, I will.” Rzhavyi flicked the ash off of his cigarette and licked his lower lip, wincing as the cut there stung. “God knows you’ve asked me enough times.”

“Good.” Topor lit up as if it was his birthday and he’d been given a new car. Weirdo. [3]“I’ll be back in a bit!”

Topor climbed back into his car and reversed out of the spot at high speed. Dirty snow flew out from under his wheels, spewing in all directions. Did he always drive like that? Or was that just how he and the rest of his racing buddies drove at the track? Rzhavyi wasn’t sure. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Damirian peered suspiciously at Rzhavyi when he walked up and joined Topor's sister. The group had dispersed. Railroad-leg girl had taken the checkered flags and headed off with some guy, the second dude had also gone off somewhere; the only two left were Damirian and Reyhan. Rzhavyi didn’t have any notable beef with Damarian — six months ago, before Rzhavyi had turned eighteen, one of Damarian’s employees at the kiosk had ID’d him. Rzhavyi had dragged the kid out onto the street and punched him, before taking the beer he’d wanted in the first place. Maybe the kid had ratted him out to Damirian, or maybe Damirian had heard something else about Rzhavyi. 

“Just here for fun.” 

Rzhavyi looked Damirian over; he had a small but strong build, and was slightly taller than Reyhan. Though he was hanging around her, he didn’t seem to be trying anything. Rzhavyi wasn’t sure whether or not he should chase him off or not. Maybe the korytnik had also asked Damarian to keep an eye on her.

“Alright.” Damirian shrugged, instantly losing interest in Rzhavyi. He turned again to Reyhan, “We’ve got a minute, wanna go for a ride?”

“I do!” Her eyes lit up, and Rzhavyi frowned. “But I can’t. Renat would be pissed.” 

“Oh come on,” Damirian waved his hand dismissively. “I'll deal with him.”

“I’m the one you’ll have to deal with, is that clear?” Rzhavyi stepped forward, just in case the asshole tried to grab Reyhan’s hand and drag her off. “She’s not going anywhere.” 

Damirian’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He looked from Reyhan to Rzhavyi and then back again. He ran his fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck and smiled an arrogant, charming, white-toothed smile. It was the type of grin that could get a girl’s pussy dripping in five minutes flat — considering Topor’s sister was a teenager, three minutes would probably do the trick.

“Who’s this, your boyfriend? Did I misunderstand?” Damirian asked her.

Reyhan's cheeks flushed a deep red. 

“He’s not mine,” she answered quickly, glancing at Rzhavyi. 

“Then it’s decided,” said Damirian. “I’ll have you back before you know it. We won't say a word to Topor, it’ll be our little secret.”

The motherfucker. He’d even winked. Had Reyhan been Rzhavyi's sister, he would have fucked Damirian up then and there with no hesitation; realistically, the situation was more complicated. 

“Pasha, no” Reyhan’s voice was serious, despite the fact that she continued to blush, “I’m not going to lie to my brother.” [4]

“Well aren’t you wholesome.” Damirian exclaimed — with disappointment or delight, Rzhavyi couldn't tell. “Alright, well, let’s chat after the race. And you—” he looked at Rzhavyi, smiling, “you should chill out, since you came here for fun. We’re all friends here.”

“You made that clear.” 

Damirian wordlessly shrugged his shoulders, turning and walking towards the same garages Topor had gone off to. The music, which was coming from someone's trunk, got louder. A bell rang out, and Reyhan grabbed Rzhavyi by the sleeve. 

“Let's go take a closer look!” 

She deftly squeezed between spectators to get them a spot right at the edge of the track. A car had just taken off from the starting line and was racing around the loop.

“Have you been to a drag race before?” Reyhan managed to spit rapidfire questions at him while keeping her eyes glued on the track. She didn’t give him any time to reply. “Have you ever raced yourself? No? Would you like to? I really want to, but Renat says I'm too young. It's not fair! I know for a fact that he learned to drive at fourteen, but I’m not allowed?! I want to race too.” 

“So ask him to teach you.” 

Rzhavyi frowned, pulling his hat down over his ears. It was cold, and the fucking snow had started up again. Reyhan pulled her fur-trimmed hood over her head and waved to someone across the track who waved back. She smiled happily at what appeared to be friends of Topor’s. 

“He promised he’d teach me,” The music was deafening, and Reyhan leaned towards Rzhavyi to yell in his ear, “When the snow isn’t so bad. But he’ll only teach me to drive! I want to do this!” Reyhan jerked her thumb towards the silver Honda on the track, which had been so thoroughly tricked out that the original make and model was barely recognizable. It rolled up to the starting line. The music quieted down a bit, and someone announced that the races were about to begin.

The Honda’s engine roared. It began doing donuts and powerslides. Rzhavyi’s breath caught as it drifted near the edge of the snowy track, before regaining ground and taking the next turn in stride. Reyhan was silent, watching with rapt attention. 

Rzhavyi was surprised to see a woman step out of the Honda after her turn was done. It was the same person that Reyhan had been chatting with before. She had apparently taken off her boots to drive, and was therefore now roughly the same height as the men who had come up to clap her on the shoulder. Rzhavyi spotted Topor among them. Topor hugged her tightly, and then said something that made her laugh. 

Reyhan caught sight of them and dashed to greet them, leaving Rzhavyi by himself. 

Rzhavyi observed from the sidelines as Reyhan jumped into the Honda, sitting in the driver's seat until Topor dragged her out. A voice over a loudspeaker announced the score the Honda had received. It was a 70, which seemed decent if the score were out of one hundred — Rzhavyi wasn’t sure. Raising her fist in triumph, the girl got back in her Honda and drove off the track. Reyhan walked over with Topor. 

“Kate’s incredible.” Topor looked antsy and excited. His hair was all over the place, and he couldn’t seem to stop smiling. “Did you see, Rzhavyi? And she’s just a girl.” [5]

“I could drive like that,” Reyhan said, sullenly. 

Topor put his arm around her shoulders — softly, not like he’d embraced Kate on the track. Reyhan snorted and squirmed away, poking her brother in the ribs as she went. Topor pretended to spar with her, deliberately missing a couple of shots before grabbing her, lightning fast, and throwing her over his shoulder. Reyhan stopped resisting and was just laughing, kicking her legs in the air while Topor spun on the spot.

“Check out this cool drift!” He was also laughing, beginning to spin her in the opposite direction. “You feeling sick? How are you going to get out of this slide?” 

Rzhavyi ducked as Reyhan’s sneakers almost collided with his face. A new car had pulled up onto the track, and Kate — again in those shiny boots — walked towards them. She watched with a barely noticeable smile as Topor, somewhat patronizingly, lowered Reyhan to the ground. She nodded to Rzhavyi. 

“Katerina.” Her handshake was strong, masculine, and she had a deep and hoarse voice. “You’ll be riding along with Renat then?” 

“My name’s Rzhavyi,” he replied, “Yeah, I am. So what, were you planning to?”

Katerina really looked like a dude. She was flat-chested with no ass and wide shoulders. Her hair was cut short and dyed blonde. Only her face was feminine — nice looking even, with bright blue eyes. She’d referred to Topor by his given name — maybe only his friends called him Topor.

Well, his friends and Rzhavyi 

“As if I’d need to.” Katerina crossed her arms over her chest and sized Rzhavyi up, taking in his split lip and the hair sticking out from under his hat. “Do you even know the rules?”

”Come on, Kate, what rules?” Topor flushed, shaking his shaggy head. “You buckle up, and you don’t bother the driver, that’s it.” 

“You never take me along,” Reyhan said, offended.

“He never takes anyone.” Katerina looked at Topor. “Pasha is driving without a passenger, by the way. Have you negotiated with him? To make it fair and even out the weight?”

“What for?” Topor frowned, before glancing quickly at Rzhavyi and smiling. “I’d beat him tonight, even if I had three passengers with me.”

The bell rang again. Over the thundering music, Rzhavyi heard snatches from the loudspeaker: “double,” “Damirian,” “Solaev.” Topor’s expression became serious, and he turned around to look at the track, where Damirian’s car was pulling up to the starting line. The dynamic playing out between Topor and Katerina would have been blindingly obvious to Rzhavyi, even if he’d just joined the conversation now. Kate was acting like a woman who was pissed off at her man, but who hadn’t outright accused him of anything yet. Topor was either oblivious, or avoiding the conflict entirely.

Kate was probably jealous of Topor’s sister, the idiot. If she wanted Topor to spin her around like he had Reyhan, he would need to use a crane. Nothing short of a hook and chain could lift that giant of a girl. 

“It’s our turn,” said Topor. “Come on, Rzhavyi.”

“Hold up.”

Katerina reached out and grabbed Topor with a hand on his neck, pulling him close. She loomed over Topor in her heels, so she had to bend over to kiss him. Rzhavyi averted his gaze. The korytnik had weird taste in girls — this one looked just like a man in heels. And why would he make out with anyone in front of his sister? Reyhan was clearly trying not to look; she had gone beet red and was staring at Katerina’s boots with laser focus. 

“Kate, back off,” Topor’s voice was muffled, and when Rzhavyi looked at him his lips were shiny with Katerina’s lipgloss. “You chose  _ this _ moment to— ugh.” 

Topor wiped at his mouth on the back of his hand. Katerina looked over at Rzhavyi and smiled.

The loudspeaker boomed again from the side of the track, magnifying Damirian’s voice with its lilting accent. 

“Solaev! How long am I gonna have to wait? Stop feeling up all the girls!”

“Alright, let's go.” Topor looked crestfallen, not making eye contact with anyone, staring ahead at Damirian’s car. “Reyhan, stay with Kate!” 

He squeezed past the spectators, making his way towards the track and Rzhavyi followed. He felt Katherina’s eyes boring a hole into the back of his head. He no longer understood what had passed between Topor and Kate, or why Topor had asked him to ride along, but he decided to drop the issue. Topor didn’t say a word as he got into the car, started the engine and buckled himself in.

They pulled onto the track as the third and final bell rang out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Art for original fic:_  
> [Kylo and Hux by doodles-have-you](https://mysticmilks.tumblr.com/post/186407018738/nonstill-doodles-have-you-matching-icons-for)  
> FOOTNOTES  
>   
> (1) Russian names each have a bunch of different familiar/short forms (called diminutives). So, while you might have a bunch of friends who are legally named Maria, you might call each of them something different (Marya, Masha, Mashka etc.) Rzhavyi's full name is Arsenii, the short form of which is Senya (which, frankly, can sound a little girly).  
> [ about names](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367092/chapters/53436760)[ return to text ]  
>   
> (2) Model Six - This car is the same make as Topor's, but while his is a Lada Ten, this is a Model Six.  
> [wiki](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/VAZ-2106)  
>   
> [ return to text ]  
>   
> (3) Weirdo - While in the West smiling at strangers isn't considered odd, in Russia a smile can be interpreted as hostile or strange. If you smile too much, people might consider you to be an idiot. Smiling at friends and loved ones is -- of course -- normal, but if you smiled at a new acquaintance as enthusiastically as Topor just has, it might be considered suspicious or disturbing[ return to text ]  
>   
> (4) Pasha - Pasha is the diminutive of Pavel (in English, Paul), which is Damarian's first name in this story.  
> [about names](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367092/chapters/53436760)[ return to text ]  
>   
> (5) Kate - Just a reminder, Phasma is named Katerina Fazova, Kate for short.  
> [about names](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367092/chapters/53436760)[ return to text ]


	8. The Text Message

Rzhavyi didn't know anything about drift racing. He’d seen people racing around the city, but that was about it. Topor hadn’t told him the rules, and maybe wasn’t going to. Rzhavyi — firmly grasping the handle above the window — tried to figure it out on the go. It seemed that the point wasn’t to overtake your opponent; Topor calmly let Damirian pull ahead of him before they drifted around the corners of the track. (1) The two cars stayed close to each other, so close that Ryzhavi was sure at one point that they would crash. All of the spinning was making Rzhavyi nauseous. The cars were kicking up snow in wide arcs, which were illuminated by the floodlights shining down on them. The windshield wipers worked furiously as Topor pulled the gear stick on his steering wheel, hitting the brake and then accelerator as he swerved. It was all happening too quickly for Ryzhavi to follow. As they exited the next turn Damirian fell behind, and Topor spun out of the apex, the car skidding on the ice like a sled.

The next turn was approaching at breakneck speed. Topor didn’t even seem intent on straightening out the car. His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, leaning forward with a look of fiery determination on his face — Rzhavyi had never seen anything like it. The car reached the turn, and Rzhavyi, clenching his teeth, barely resisted the urge to either brace himself against the dashboard, or to cover his face with his hands so as to not look at the wall of white snow that they were about to crash into.

In reality, he didn’t even have time for genuine fear; the brakes screeched wildly and the car only brushed the snowdrift before drifting around the turn like clockwork.

Somewhere behind them Damirian reappeared. 

“Fuck off! No, you don’t!” Topor screamed as if Damirian could hear him, cranking the steering wheel. “Fuck off!” 

Rzhavyi clutched at his seat and turned to look back. Damirian’s orange VAZ had two racing stripes running over its hood. Damirian managed to make the turn, but seemed slower and more restrained.

  


_Damirian’s orange VAZ_

“Don’t squirm around.” Topor shot a glance at Rzhavyi before beginning a new lap, spraying snow towards the spectators. 

His cheeks were flushed. His hair was tucked under the collar of his leather jacket, and wisps of it clung to his damp forehead. As they roared around the last lap, Topor’s driving made Rzhavyi lose his breath. He felt the tips of his fingers tingle, just like they did when he got nervous, or… he chalked it up to the adrenaline.

When they got across the finish line Topor stopped his car alongside Damirian’s. He exhaled loudly, pressed his forehead against the steering wheel, and then turned his head to look at Ryzhavi, pushing his damn hair away from his face.

His lips glittered with leftover lipgloss, and the look on his face was feral.

“Well?” Topor asked impatiently. “What did you think?”

Rzhavyi smiled, not knowing what to do with the swell of emotions overtaking him. It felt like they rose in his chest, bursting through him, as if they were racing ahead of Damirian at breakneck speed, but not crashing. The engine — rumbling idly under the hood of the car — seemed to mirror Rzhavyi’s heart. Outside music was playing, and Rzhavyi’s palms were sweaty. He shifted carefully in his seat, subtly moving his left hand on his thigh to bunch up the fabric of his sweatpants so that Topor wouldn’t see the way they were stretched over his crotch. Topor didn't notice, breathing heavily and unevenly, pressing his flushed cheek into his knuckles on the steering wheel. He stared up into Rzhavyi’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Rzhavyi replied, “it was cool.” 

Topor grinned. He had glitter on his lips and a couple bits in his beard. Rzhavyi's face was burning, probably as intensely red as Reyhan’s had been when she’d tried to ignore Topor making out with his girlfriend. The interior of the car felt hot and stuffy. Maybe Topor was feeling it too? He looked about as red as a lobster.

Maybe this was normal? 

“I told you you’d like it,” Topor said, smugly. “Now we’ll get the scores and then we’ll go again. Then they’ll total up the points, and we’ll know who won.”

Rzhavyi leaned back in his seat. He closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to return to normal as the commentator announced a five-minute break. Topor climbed out of the car — letting in a gust of cold air — and then leaned against the driver's door. Rzhavyi heard Damirian’s approaching. He seemed to want to cool off too. 

Rzhavyi opened the window when they began to announce scores. Damirian and Topor were almost neck to neck, but to rile up the crowd they gave Topor a higher score; maybe the judges had been impressed by his penultimate lap.

“You ready?” Topor fell into the driver’s seat, smiling happily. “Roll up the window.”

The second race went by even faster than the first. Topor pushed the car to its limits, or so it seemed to Rzhavyi. He wasn’t sure how it looked to the judges, but when Topor’s car dipped into turns behind the orange Model Six, it felt as if they moved in tandem, remaining two feet apart at all times. Rzhavyi felt like it was something out of a racing movie.

As promised, Topor kicked Damirian’s ass. As soon as he rolled off the track Reyhan squealed and flung her arms around her brother. Topor deposited his sister back on the ground and accepted congratulatory hugs from his crew. He shook hands with Damirian, who swore to kick his ass next time. Katerina lurked nearby and pulled him into a kiss, which Topor — for some reason — kept chaste and brief. Rzhavyi sat on the hood of the car and watched the proceedings. Reyhan joined him and immediately began pestering him with questions.

“I couldn’t tell you anything,” Rzhavyi sniffed in response, overhearing Topor tell his friends that he had to take his sister home. “How do you win at drift racing anyhow?” 

It was a mistake to ask. Reyhan launched into an explanation, clearly excited — for once — to be the expert on the topic. When she came to clipping points and early drifts, she began drawing diagrams in the snow on the Lada’s hood. While Reyhan seemed sure that her illustrations were helping explain drift trajectories, Rzhavyi’s mind was elsewhere. His eyes drifted to Topor laughing and chatting with his buddies.

Rzhavyi felt his mood take a turn. He wasn’t normally introspective; he got up in the morning, washed his face, brushed his teeth, went to work, hung out with his crew or started shit. None of it was particularly good or bad, it just was. The exact same, day after day, week after week. If something came up he dealt with it without agonizing over his emotions. That kind of contemplation was for girls or for white-collar workers with leased cars and dour expressions. Rzhavyi was too busy for that shit.

But apparently he had the time to brood now.

“Do you wanna take shotgun?” He asked Reyhan out of the blue, as he saw Topor saying his goodbyes. 

“Seriously!?” Her head snapped up and she blinked at him. “Like, sit up front? With Renat? And you— can I really!?”

She was borderline incoherent, and Rzhavyi just nodded. He sat in the back seat and slammed the door behind him, muffling the sounds of music and roaring engines coming from the track. 

“How’d she twist your arm to get this spot?” Topor turned to Rzhavyi with a smile, and then gently bumped his sister on the shoulder. “You’re a brat, Reyhan.”

“I’m not a brat! Rzhavyi offered!”

“Oh,” Topor scratched his neck under his hair and pulled out of the field and onto the highway. “All by himself? Hey, Rzhavyi, there should still be beer back there, go ahead and grab one.”

Why? Was the beer supposed to help somehow?

Rzhavyi swallowed down a third of the can. Topor turned on some relaxing music and drove more cautiously than usual. He didn’t accelerate wildly when the light turned green, and even slowed down as he turned. Was he tired? Rzhavyi was barely worried about spilling his beer.

Even Reyhan seemed calmer; she was chatting away, but Rzhavyi wasn’t listening. Asphalt rumbled under the wheels of the car, the surround sound speakers played non-Russian music, and Rzhavyi sulkily sipped his beer, staring out at the passing streetlamps. He was inexplicably angry, and frustrated with himself because of it. 

Topor wasn't talking either. He was mostly watching the road. A couple of times Rzhavyi awkwardly met his eyes in the rearview mirror. And Topor looked away first. 

“Fuck, the route is blocked,” he said as they pulled up to Reyhan’s courtyard. “We'll have to walk the rest of the way.” Alongside Reyhan’s building, a snowplow with flashing yellow lights moved towards them. It was huge, barely fitting between the parked cars on the street. Cursing again, Topor squeezed his car between the clandestine sheds that assholes had built right on the lawn [3]. Topor — for some reason — reassured Ryzhavyi that he would be right back, and escorted his sister to the entrance of her building. 

Reyhan waved goodbye to Rzhavyi as she walked away.

The beer was almost gone. 

When he returned, Topor didn't get behind the wheel, but instead climbed in back next to Rzhavyi. He fumbled around under the passenger seat before retrieving a new can of beer and offered it to Rzhavyi.

“Want some more?“

“No.” It was hot in the car and Rzhavyi pulled off his hat. “I’ve still got some.”

“Okay then.” 

Topor didn’t seem to be in a hurry. He turned the can in his hands, opened it, and chugged noisily. Some of the foam dripped down onto his pants, but Topor didn’t seem to notice.

“What, are you drunk driving?” Rzhavyi asked. 

It was completely dark between the sheds where they were parked. Rzhavyi could barely make out Topor’s face. Topor turned towards him, moving closer. The back seat seemed too small to accommodate him; his left knee slid between the two front seats. 

“Well, I’m not _technically_ driving now.” Rzhavyi couldn’t see Topor’s grin in the dark, but he could hear it in his voice. “Don’t worry. The roads are empty, there are no cops. We’ll take a shortcut.”

“You can drive,” Rzhavyi finished his beer and crushed the can with a loud crunch. “I'll walk.”

“You scared or something?” Topor grinned and ostentatiously took another swig.

“I’d rather not die before my time,” Rzhavyi replied. 

“Oh, don't fucking lie.” The korytnik moved closer, moving his elbow to the seat in front of them, effectively boxing Rzhavyi in. “You, of all people? The one who gets the shit beaten out of him daily? You’re the one who doesn’t have a death wish?”

“Screw you.” Rzhavyi dropped the crumpled can between his feet. The beer had made him light-headed — only a bit, but still. He felt sluggish. Reyhan lived on Kurchatova Boulevard, so he’d be able to walk home in about half an hour — maybe forty minutes with all this snow.

“Why is it so difficult with you?” Topor’s voice sounded wrecked, or so it seemed to Rzhavyi. And what did he mean by ‘difficult?’

“What do you even want from me?” Rzhavyi frowned, peering into Topor’s face — as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, details came into focus. All of the questions he’d suppressed all evening came spilling out. “Why the fuck did you bring me along tonight?! Did you not have enough goddamn babysitters for your sister?! God knows you have enough fucking friends, I met them. And why did you have me ride along with you and not your sister? Or your girlfriend? I didn’t repair your phone so you could show me a good time, I’ve told you that a hundred fucking times! I fixed it, and now we are even, that’s it.” Rzhavyi panted, catching his breath, but Topor didn’t seem to have anything to say. He just waited, staring at Rzhavyi in the dark. Rzhavyi continued, “You don't owe me anything, I don't owe you anything, it’s fucking finished! And what the fuck about me is so ‘difficult?!’” 

“What are you... “ Topor stammered, exasperated and shaking his head. “I wasn’t fucking talking about the phone— why do you— you know what? Fuck it.”

Topor was clearly terrible with words, and Ryzhavyi was about to mock him for it, but he didn’t get the chance. Topor reached out and grabbed Rzhavyi’s hair. He shoved their mouths together, crushing Rzhavyi back into the seat. In one horrible moment, Rzhavyi felt his stomach drop out of the bottom of the car, down below the ground and into the sewers, where it remained. He raised his arms in an attempt to push Topor away, grabbing at his leather jacket and trying to turn his head, but the koritnyk clung to him like a leech. Topor mouthed wetly at his lips, and Rzhavyi felt himself freeze up under the onslaught.

He snapped out of it when Topor caught his broken lip between his teeth. Rzhavyi felt a sharp jolt of pain run through him, and it brought him back into his body. He punched Topor in the diaphragm; he didn’t couldn’t put any serious swing behind it, but it was still a solid blow. Before Topor could react, Rzhavyi slammed his fist into his cheekbone.

Rzhavyi’s knuckles stung as if he’d punched a statue. Topor’s head drew back and the can of beer in his hand spilled across Rzhavyi’s shoulder and chest. If Topor had been a normal person — like any of the numerous people that Rzhavyi had beaten the shit out of — he would have been knocked out, or at least stunned. Topor wasn’t normal though. He could destroy sideview mirrors on a whim, and Rzhavyi didn’t even know where he’d gotten the nickname “axe.” Did he chop wood with his bare fucking hands like Jackie Chan? 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Topor pressed his palm to his cheek, staring at Rzhavyi with wild eyes. He was breathing heavily, but hadn’t retreated, only gotten a grip on the beer can to stop it spilling all over Rzhavyi.

“What the fuck am _I_ doing!?” Yet again the taste of blood filled Rzhavyi's mouth as he ran his tongue over his split lip. “Have you lost your fucking mind!? I fucking asked you why the fuck you brought me along—” 

Now he was the one that words were failing. He’d asked Topor why he’d invited him, and Topor had answered. He’d invited Rzhavyi in order to grope him like some whore, here in the backseat, parked between the sheds. Didn’t he have a girlfriend for that? Rzhavyi had _seen_ them.

“Fuck!” He spat blood, avoiding Topor’s gaze. “If I’d fucking known that you were one of— one of those.”

“One of those what?”

When Rzhavyi reached for the door handle, Topor grabbed his wrist, fingers clenching around him. The korytnik’s voice became dry and harsh, like sandpaper. Like rough strokes against the grain, with the smell of sap and sawdust in the air.

“One of those what?” Topor repeated deliberately. “Say what you were going to say — you think I haven’t heard it before?”

Rzhavyi pulled his wrist out of Topor’s grip, twisting it painfully. There was a lump in his throat preventing him from speaking. Topor didn’t grab him again, just clenched his hand into a fist and glowered. 

Snow and sleet battered Rzhavyi as he got out of the car. He slammed the car door as hard as he could, shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, and stalked off without looking back. He felt like he’d been skinned alive and thrown into a snowbank. He was shaking, his heart pounded wildly, and his dick — with terrible timing — was uncomfortably hard. This time the drag race wasn’t to blame.

Only Topor’s wet mouth. His hands. His wild eyes. 

Rzhavyi broke into a sprint. He ran faster than he’d ever run from the cops, from those asshole bullies in 11th grade, or after a bus pulling away from the stop. He overshot his street, and doubled back across his block, gasping as the wind blew in his face. He only stopped for the red light at the intersection of Sverdlova and Razin to avoid being hit by traffic that seemed to come out of nowhere.

Rzhavyi ran like he was being chased, with snot flowing from his nose and his lungs screaming. He had a cramp in his side, and under his jacket, he was soaked with sweat. The only thing he could think of was Topor. 

What was he even running from? From Topor? From his own erection?

Arriving home, Rzhavyi shoved his key in the door and stumbled into the hallway. Without even taking off his shoes he marched to the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of vodka from the cupboard under the microwave. Only half of it was left, but it would do. He unscrewed the top and gulped it down until he choked. The only food he could find was a chunk of rye bread. Grabbing the loaf and the bottle, Ryzhavi stormed out of the kitchen and slammed the door, before sitting on the floor and leaning back against it.

He was chewed on the stale bread and choked back the vodka until he teared up. His throat burned. He drained the bottle, and only then did he feel himself begin to calm down.

Rzhavyi's head spun as he stood up. Using the walls for support, he navigated the three steps to the couch. He fell onto the bed, not bothering to undress, only pausing to kick his sneakers off onto the floor. His sweater reeked of beer. He felt his phone buzz in the pocket of his sweatpants. Rzhavyi took it out and squinted at the screen. He had a message from Topor.

Under the notification were two options, “read” or “delete.”

He should have just deleted it. He should delete the korytnik’s number.

_"i won't apologize do what you want"_

Topor didn't write anything else. Rzhavyi didn't reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FOOTNOTES
> 
> [1] drift cornering by sliding - also called throwing sideways. [video explanation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UvAOm3zgZH0)
> 
> [2] clandestine sheds - These single car garages were built illegally, and therefore ended up in strange places. Nowadays -- at least in Moscow -- they've all been removed.


	9. Bender

The girl behind the glass partition gave Rzhavyi a look of contempt. He slipped her the filled-out form and his beat-up passport[1], with ragged corners and roughed up pages. Rzhavyi didn’t take care of it or have a cover for it. The bank teller flipped through it, flashing her long pink fingernails. She then tucked the passport under her keyboard and began typing. She pecked away at the keyboard with her index fingers, all others idle.

Rzhavyi rested his elbows on the narrow counter in front of the teller window. He was grateful for the glass partition between himself and the girl, as he reeked so badly of alcohol that he could even smell it on himself. He’d woken up with his head buzzing. He drank some tea and rushed off to work still drunk. The hangover only began later in the day. Rodionov — after giving him a new batch of phones to work on — told him that eating something would help, but Rzhavyi couldn’t manage it. He wanted to vomit shortly after choking down his first meat pie, and ended up having to drink some beer to get his head in working order.

On the way to the bank Rzhavyi drank a can of  _ Okhota _ . It got him tipsy yet again, which helped. The teller checked if the bills were counterfeit under ultraviolet light and Rzhavyi watched as they sped through the counting machine.

“Do you want to upgrade your account[2]?” the girl asked in a bored tone.

“Nope,” Rzhavyi sniffed, staring distractedly at the cash. He narrowed his eyes at her, “Don’t need it.”

She opened her mouth to say something — probably to try and fucking upsell him — but reconsidered. She took in his broken lip and skinned knuckles, and clearly decided against it. She returned his passport to him.

“How much longer will this take?” asked Rzhavyi. 

“I still have to fill in your passbook,” she answered, snippily, “You’ll have to wait.”

Rzhavyi nodded. His cash disappeared into the safe, and there was nothing interesting left to look at. Out of boredom, he stared at the big collectors coins on display behind the partition. They were polished and shiny, in velvet boxes, and were stamped with symbols of cities and regions. Tolyatti didn’t have its own coin — apparently it wasn’t important enough. There were only coins for Samara, Ufa (for some god forsaken reason), Altai Krai and Moscow. Fucking Moscow even had two coins. On one of them Rzhavyi recognized the Kremlin, and on the other were the domed steeples of some sort of church. 

“Would you like to buy one?” The girl handed him a brand new passbook under the partition. The cover was an unpleasant puce color, which reminded him of mold.

“Why the hell would I?” He shoved the book into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Are we finished here? Ok then, goodbye.”

At a kiosk around the corner Rzhavyi bought another beer. In all honesty, he was already pretty drunk, but every time he began to sober up he’d start thinking about what happened last night with Topor. It tormented Rzhavyi. He had no idea what to do about it, and hadn’t come up with any better idea than to go to Rodionov’s place and get drunk again. Rodionov’s wife and son had gone to visit his mother-in-law, and so by the time Rzhavyi arrived, everyone was already smashed. Rzhavyi tried to talk to the few that were still standing — and even managed some almost comprehensible conversation. He grabbed a yellowing pickle that was past its prime from the massive jar on the table and knocked back a shot of vodka[3]. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat down on the vacant stool across from Rodionov.

Rodionov was absolutely shitfaced. He poured vodka over the second round of shots with an unsteady hand, before stabbing around in the pickle jar with a fork. Upon finding it empty, Rodionov reached into the refrigerator and pulled out some salo. 

“Hey, I forgot to mention,” Rodionov cut a couple of slices of the pork fat, pausing to take a bite and a swig, “some mobster came to the garage this morning asking for you.”

“What did he want? Who was he?”

Rzhavyi wiped the sweat from his brow. The kitchen was boiling. In the living room, there was a fight brewing — some argument over a woman, or maybe something else. Some half-naked slut weaved her way down the hallway.

“Hey babe, who’s this?” She staggered up the kitchen and leaned against the door frame, staring at Rzhavyi, slurring her words. “Do I recognize y—”

“You don’t,” he cut her off. 

“Well then, let’s get to know each other.”

He didn't want to talk to the slut, but she wasn’t ugly; she had a decent face and she didn’t look too skanky. She had long hair and nice tits. Her denim skirt was askew, she wasn’t wearing pantyhose, and her lacy sweater only had three of its buttons done up.

“Margo,” she came up to him and sat across his knees, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, “and you are? Wait, let me guess, Sanya[4]?”

She was only off by one letter. 

“Get off me.”

Rzhavyi unhooked her arm from around his shoulders. He wanted to fucking shove her off his lap onto the floor, but at the end of the day, she was still a girl. She’d just fall on her ass and cry about it, so he’d have to convince her to leave using his words.

Or maybe he wouldn’t? 

Her perfume smelled sweet and cloying. Her dyed black hair was curled in large ringlets, glued in shape with shiny hair spray. The fight in the living room started up in earnest, and Rodionov cursed. He slammed back a third shot before rising heavily to his feet and turning to the two of them. 

“Don’t eat all of the pork while I’m gone.”

Rzhavyi didn't want any. He didn’t want the girl either. Even vodka wouldn’t have made her more appealing, or if it hadn’t been abundantly clear that someone else had fucked her five minutes earlier.

“So did I guess right or what?”

Her skirt — which was already quite short — was bunched up around her waist, almost revealing her cunt. Rzhavyi looked down. Her legs were unremarkable, shaved and smooth, with soft knees. She returned her arm to its spot around his shoulders and stroked the nape of his neck with her fingers. Her nails were sharp, and she flipped her hair over her shoulder so that Rzhavyi had an unobstructed view of her chest. 

At that moment Rzhavyi felt sick. Not because of the tits, maybe it had nothing to do with her at all. 

In the other room, Rodionov and Dead were trying to break up the row. A colorful toy truck rolled out from under their feet into the hallway, hitting the opposite wall with a thud. A man dashed to the toilet, bent in half with a hand over his mouth. Rzhavyi didn’t recognize him. Cigarette smoke hung thick in the air.

It would probably have been a good idea to help Rodionov out, or to take the slut and move to the vacant bedroom. 

“I can tell you don’t wanna chat,” she shifted in his lap, running a finger over his cheekbone and licking her lips, “you’re a serious one, huh?”

Rzhavyi grabbed her slim wrist and his fingers easily overlapped each other. It would have felt completely different with Topor. With his hand wrapped around the korytnik’s wrist, Rzhavyi’s thumb and middle finger would have barely touched. 

“I told you to get off me.” He looked in her heavily pencilled eyes and moved her hand away. “Got it?”

“Alright, alright,” she answered in surprise. “Let go of me. I’ll leave.”

Rzhavyi released her wrist. She stood up, pulled down her skirt and straightened her hair. She glanced into the living room, and decided against it. 

“Can I sit here?”

Instead of answering, Rzhavyi poured her a shot of vodka in Rodionov’s empty glass. He poured one for himself, exhaled, and drank it in one go. He took a bite of the salo.

“Sanya, your girlfriend is lucky.” The girl grimaced and wiped her eyes, the vodka making them water.

“My name isn’t Sanya.”

Rzhavyi didn't bother to say goodbye. Everyone was either fighting, drinking, or fucking. Rzhavyi never declined partake in the first two, but this time he didn’t want to hang around. The vodka wasn’t helping. The only effect it seemed to be having was that he couldn’t see straight. He tried his best to untangle his laces, fell out into the stairwell, and then stumbled down the stairs, clinging to the handrails as he went so as not to fall.

He made it to the street before he remembered that he meant to ask Rodionov about the gangsters that had come looking for him.

Whatever. Today he had to deal with a different problem. He wasn’t some Sanya — his name was Rzhavyi, and unless they outnumbered him, Rzhavyi didn’t run from his problems. Topor was just one guy alone in his apartment. 

By the time Rzhavyi arrived at Topor’s place, nothing felt real anymore. Time skipped like he was in a poorly edited movie. He’d just opened the door to the building, but he was already on the fifth floor. He was listening to the annoying sound of the door bell ringing inside the apartment, but by then he’d pushed Topor aside and stalked into the kitchen. 

“Hey, we’ve got to talk. Pour me a drink.” Rzhavyi tried to sit down on a kitchen stool with little success. The korytnik grabbed his forearm and then leveraged him under the armpit to press him up against the wall. Topor growled so loudly that Rzhavyi saw sparks.

“You want to fucking talk. Do you know what time it is? You’re a fucking mess and you want me to pour you a drink? How did you even get here?”

“Why are you yelling?” Rzhavyi shoved him back and looked around the kitchen. The walls were covered in posters and calendars. As he looked they all blended together. He felt bile rising at the back of his throat. “Fuck.”

He managed to swallow it down, but he still felt nauseous. Topor stood before him wearing only his boxers, which were revealing enough that he might as well have not been wearing anything at all. Topor’s fists were clenched and he looked furious as he stared at Rzhavyi.

“Go on, say what you were going to say.” He pulled the electric kettle off its base and poured a cup of water for Rzhavyi[5]. He filled it to the brim, and when he slammed it down on the kitchen table it splashed everywhere. “Or get the fuck out.”

“Oi! Don’t tell me what to do!” 

Rzhavyi had no idea what he was doing. The vodka meant he lashed out automatically; Topor was fucking with him, which meant he needed to push back. He didn't even stagger when he got to his feet, but he felt blood pounding in his ears and his vision went spotty. Rzhavyi didn’t let that stop him. Even a blind man could have struck Topor in the tiny kitchen, and Rzhavyi landed a blow to the side of his face. The korytnik stepped back, slamming into the cabinet above the sink. Something inside of it crashed loudly.

Things then took a turn for Rzhavyi. Topor immobilized him in two moves, lashing out at his leg and twisting his arm behind his back. He pushed Rzhavyi’s face into the kitchen table. Rzhavyi jerked, trying to get free, but Topor’s elbow held his shoulders in place with crushing force, and his other hand twisted Rzhavyi’s wrist up uncomfortably.

“Have you lost your mind?” The korytnik’s voice rumbled low in his ear. “You come into my home and tell me what to do?”

Rzhavyi gritted his teeth. Pain shot up his arm and his own saliva tasted bitter in his mouth. Silently, he glared up at Topor, blinking back tears of shame. He was so dizzy that he was afraid to open his mouth to reply. 

“What? Did you swallow your tongue?”

Topor didn’t seem to be in a hurry to release him, but made the mistake of slackening his grip. Rzhavyi twisted, driving his elbow into the korytnik’s stomach. Bolstered by the sight of Topor bent over clutching his stomach, Rzhavyi tried again to attack.

And tripped over his own feet. Brilliant.

He would have fucking cracked his head open on the edge of the table if Topor hadn’t corrected the trajectory of his fall so that he crumpled neatly to the floor. Hitting the table might have been better than this, with the korytnik pinning him in place. His knees were on either side of Rzhavyi’s hips, pressing Rzhavyi’s wrists into the linoleum on either side of his head

“Jesus, calm down. Fuck.”

Rzhavyi couldn't move an inch. He panted heavily, no longer trying to escape. 

“Why are you here?” Topor asked. 

”I told you, we need to talk.” 

The muscles across Topor’s chest tensed, and the veins stood out on his arms. He must eat mountains of food three times a day and then do an infinite number of pushups. Rzhavyi had no clue how someone could be that huge and not have any fat on them. Rodionov was also massive, but his muscles were hidden under a soft outer layer.

“So?” Topor didn't move, didn't let it go. He loomed above Rzhavyi like a moose that had wandered out of the forest and gotten lost.“You’ve had enough to drink, so start talking.” 

“You’re not going to try and kiss me this time, are you?” Rzhavyi was drunk enough that he blurted it out without thinking, only afterwards biting back his tongue.

Topor shot back without hesitation, “Why? Did you like it?”

“What!?” Despite being blind drunk Rzhavyi couldn’t let that slide, “Do I look like a fucking faggot?”

“Do I?”

Topor finally released Rzhavyi’s wrists. He sat back and rested his hands on his thighs as if to give Rzhavyi a better view to judge whether he looked like a homosexual or not. There wasn’t really much to judge; Topor looked like a normal guy. He didn’t wear faggy clothes, didn’t wave his ass around, didn’t have a girly voice. And he had a girlfriend, didn’t he? He did.

But there was something at odds with his appearance. Rzhavyi tried not to stare, but his eyes were drawn down between the koruytnik’s legs. There told a different story. Topor’s white boxers were barely containing his erection. Topor didn’t seem bothered. He didn't even look away when Rzhavyi — having come to his senses — blinked and stared up at his face. 

Maybe because everything was also clear to the korytnik. Rzhavyi’s hard dick was pressed up against Topor’s ass. He must have felt it through their clothes. 

“Fine.” Topor said suddenly, grabbing the stove to help him get nimbly to his feet, “Come on, get up. I don’t need you dusting the floor with your ass.”

Maybe Topor hadn’t noticed afterall? 

Rzhavyi wasn’t able to stand up as quickly as Topor did. He heaved himself onto all fours, calculated that he could grab the handle of the refrigerator for support. He reached for it, and his hand slipped on the cold plastic.

“Fucking shit.”

The handle wasn’t working properly, and neither was Rzhavyi's body. There was a disconnect between what he was attempting, and what his body was doing. Eventually he gave up on trying to stand and sat somewhere on the floor. He closed his eyes and a dense, pleasant darkness immediately fell over him. Rzhavyi let it drag him down for a moment, before flinching awake when something over his head slammed loudly. He heard a beep, and then a humming sound. 

Realizing it was a microwave, he opened his eyes and gazed at Topor’s bare feet. But didn’t moose have hooves? And a thick coat of fur?

“How much have you had to drink, huh?” 

Topor scooped him up under the arms and deposited him on a stool in the corner of the kitchen. He thrust a bowl of steaming soup under Rzhavyi’s nose, and at that moment Rzhavyi realized he wanted more than anything — more than even passing out or puking — to eat. The soup was thick, with bright red, chunks of meat, and potatoes, noodles and onions. Rzhavyi forgot all about his boner and Topor. He shovelled some soup into his mouth, knocking his teeth against the spoon as he did so.

“Fucking disaster,” said Topor.

Rzhavyi didn't know what he was referring to, but just in case he replied, “I don’t think so. It’s delicious. What is this anyway?”

“Soup.” Topor looked down at the bowl as if seeing it for the first time, and then back up at Rzhavyi with the same strange expression on his face. “What is your mother feeding you? Exclusively ramen, or what?” 

Rzhavyi ignored the question. He was busy devouring the meat from the soup, which was falling off the bone.

Topor watched him silently for some time. He then left the kitchen and returned, dressed in a wrinkled T-shirt and worn sweatpants. By then Rzhavyi had almost finished the mystery soup and was slowly sobering up, which he wasn’t pleased about. Everything was easier when he was drunk: fighting, talking… looking at Topor. 

“Feel better?” Topor lit a cigarette, cracking open the window. He’d tucked his hair behind his ears, which were big and stuck out from his head. It should have made him look funny, Rzhavyi didn’t want to laugh at all. 

“Sort of,” he replied, scooping up some noodles from the bottom of the bowl. “Is this soup, like, your national dish or something?”

“It’s called ‘everything left in the fridge, chopped up and boiled.’”

”Ah.”

Topor stared at him, making Rzhavyi feel like he was caught in the korytnik’s headlights. He spaced out, the spoon hanging from his hand like some useless drunk. His eyes slid shut and he stopped thinking entirely. He leaned to the side, and the green painted surface of the wall felt more comfortable than any bed he’d ever slept in. Rzhavyi’s apartment was five flights of stairs down, a stroll across the courtyard, and then one floor up. Rzhavyi was halfway down the stairs when he heard Topor calling to him.

“Hey, Red, you listening?” 

He hadn’t actually moved anywhere; he was still sitting on the stool in Topor’s kitchen. The korytnik had already finished his cigarette and was washing out Rzhavyi’s bowl. 

“Let's go to bed, huh?” 

Topor’s sofa bed was wide. Rzhavyi kicked off his sneakers, stripped off his warm sweater, and fell back onto a pillow, closing his eyes. His head immediately started spinning, as if it was a helicopter, carrying him off, a ringing sound in his ears. He rolled over onto his side and stared at Topor’s silhouette in the darkness. Topor’s body was turned away from him, facing the wall.

“When did you know?” Rzhavyi asked him. 

Topor didn't respond immediately. Rzhavyi thought he’d fallen asleep already, or was pretending that he had. Maybe he hadn’t understood the question. Then the korytnik turned onto his back, shifting further away towards the wall, before asking in a quiet voice, “Know what?”

“Y’know… that.” Rzhavyi didn’t know how to say it, but Topor understood anyway.

“A long time ago,” he answered. 

“How?” 

Topor snorted. Rzhavyi heard him move around under the blanket, before he sat up and put his back to the wall, pulling his knees into his chest. Rzhavyi’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough that he could make out the korytnik’s face.

Topor stared out the window. 

“I did martial arts. Judo[6]. My uncle coached a youth league. I was around sixteen, I think. At first, I thought it was the same for everyone.” Topor grinned and scratched his head, resting his elbow on his knee and looking at Rzhavyi. “That your dick gets hard when you fight. Turns out that is not the case, or at least, not for everyone.”

Rzhavyi listened silently. He didn’t really understand, but now at least he knew why Topor fought so well. Judo, then. Rzhavyi had learned how to fight on the street. 

“But you have a girlfriend.”

“Sorta,” Topor shrugged, “but it doesn’t mean anything. We just fuck.” 

A car drove through the courtyard. The light from the headlamps moved across the ceiling, one after the other. They almost reached the lamp fixture in the middle of the ceiling. Rzhavyi’s mouth felt dry and his head hurt so badly that it became difficult to think. 

“I actually...” Topor turned back to the window and frowned, continuing tensely, “I thought that maybe I was over it. Until I saw you.” 

“So I’m to blame then?” Rzhavyi rose up onto his elbow, clenching the blanket in between his fingers as his head throbbed painfully, “You can fuck off with that shit.” 

“Don’t start,” winced the korytnik. “Why are you always starting shit? Is it my fault that your face is straight out of a film?”

“What fucking  _ film ?”  _

Rzhavyi sat up out of indignation, before pressing his fingers to his forehead as his temples throbbed.

“I don’t know.” Topor snapped, “I don’t have any pain meds, so you’re going to have to lie down and wait it out.” 

Rzhavyi gritted his teeth and watched Topor lay back down. This time the korytnik didn’t face the wall. He lay on his back and closed his eyes, obviously not open to further conversation. Well, fuck him. After the worst of his headache subsided, Rzhavyi lay down on the edge of the sofa bed, stretching out on his stomach and burying his face in the pillow.

It smelled of Topor, his body and cologne. The smell was rich and stifling. It made Rzhavyi restless, and he thought about getting up and going home. He’d put on his sneakers, retrieve his sweater from the floor and his jacket from somewhere in the kitchen. He visualized his escape plan three times.

On the fourth, he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Footnotes:_  
>   
>  1\. _passport_ \- [See footnote in chapter 6 "The Mobile Phone"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22380280/chapters/61039678#note66) for more on the importance of Russian passports. [ return to text ]  
>   
> 2\. _open an account_ \- The bank teller literally asked him: "Do you want to open card?" Outside of Moscow, bank cards were a separate service. And maybe it cost something to have one. So his money was in the bank, but he only could withdraw it in person at the bank.[ return to text ]  
>   
> 3\. _pickle_ \- Eastern Europeans tend to eat pickles (or other salty/briny foods) in between shots of vodka.[ return to text ]  
>   
> 4\. _Sanya_ \- Her guess here could be a joke, as Sanya is short for Alexander, one of the most popular Russian names for boys. There are a lot popular names, and that's why young people often use nicknames[ return to text ]  
>   
> 5\. _electric kettle_ \- The tap water in Tolyatti may not have been safe to drink, which is why Topor would have poured him a (cold) glass of water from the kettle instead.[ return to text ]  
>   
> 6\. _Judo_ \- Fighting sports are popular in Russia. Btw, there were real crime groups "headhunting" young boys through fighting clubs.[ return to text ]


	10. The Entrance Hall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, the domestic violence tag comes into play in this chapter, along with some period/Russia-typical anti-Semitism. We love our boys, but they can be problematic.

  


_Topor's apartment_

Rzhavyi slept poorly, or maybe not at all, he had no idea. Now and then he fell into a muddy, anxious sleep. He would emerge from it with a sore head and mouth like sandpaper, unstick his lips from one another, turn over, and pass out again. He knew he had to drink something or take a piss, but Rzhavyi couldn't do either. His body felt like a dead weight, one which refused to walk. He wasn’t entirely aware of where he was. Rolling over, Rzhavyi buried himself in the soft back of his sofa; it was hot, smooth, and smelled unfamiliar. He turned his head slightly, squinting in the dark, finding that there were no sofa cushions in sight. 

Instead he saw Topor. Rzhavyi wasn’t on his own couch, or even in his own apartment. 

He remembered the previous day in fragments: he’d gotten drunk at Rodionov’s, come to Topor’s place and they’d fought. He’d eaten some delicious soup, and then slept here. The details slipped away from Rzhavyi. His head ached terribly, and Topor’s sofa was soft. The blanket was warm, and Rzhavyi closed his eyes, moving away from the korytnik. 

The next time he woke up it was because he was unbearably hot. Rzhavyi kicked the blanket off and stuck his legs out. Freeing his upper body proved to be more difficult. The blanket seemed to cling to Rzhavyi and pin him to the sofabed. He was sweating all over, smothered under some woolly creature that refused to be peeled back. Turning over sluggishly, he freed his right hand and fumbled to try and find the fucking edge of the blanket. 

Instead he found a hairy arm. He jerked his hand back, dragging his eyelids apart, and finally understood why he was so hot. 

The korytnik had rolled half on top of him and thrown his arm across Rzhavyi’s chest. He slept on his stomach, his head turned towards Rzhavyi, and Rzhavyi could feel Topor’s breath on his cheek. Topor’s cheeks were pink as he slept and his hair was a mess. When Rzhavyi moved to crawl out from under him, the korytnik only wrapped his arm around Rzhavyi tighter and nuzzled his shoulder. 

Rzhavyi gave him a shake. It didn't help. There wasn’t even any space to move away if he wanted to; Topor had forced him to the edge of the mattress. The sheer amount of space on the sofa behind the korytnik was offensive. Theoretically, he could have climbed over the korytnik and curled up on the other side of Topor, or even roused him and made him take that goddamn spot himself, but Rzhavyi had spent all of his strength waging a war with the blanket. He didn’t want to have to move anymore, and he’d cooled down enough to be a comfortable temperature. Topor — other than snuffling in his ear — wasn’t actually bothering him. It was even a little bit funny. Rzhavyi rolled over, putting his back to the korytnik, and Topor raised his arm to let him — meaning he’d just woken up — and after a couple of seconds he rested his arm on Rzhavyi’s waist. 

“Hands off.”

Rzhavyi barely recognized his own voice — it was hoarse and deep, as if someone else was speaking through him, using his mouth. Every word sent pain pounding through his head, as if someone was hitting him with something heavy and elastic — a rubber mallet.

“Shut the fuck up,” Topor muttered in response.

“Excuse me?”

“Shush,” Rzhavyi felt Topor’s voice against his spine, sending goosebumps down his back, to his tailbone and down his legs. “If you won’t be quiet I’ll push you off the couch and you can complain from the floor.”

Topor fingers squeezed Rzhavyi’s side. Topor exhaled between his shoulder blades and nudged Rzhavyi with his forehead. He moved closer, almost touching, and if Rzhavyi had been a cat, his fur would have stood up on end. 

“Did I fucking stutter?”

Topor's hand stubbornly moved lower, to where Rzhavyi’s t-shirt had ridden up. His fingers, clammy and hot, pressed tightly against Rzhavyi’s skin. Rzhavyi tensed and gritted his teeth. It wasn’t that he found it gross: it was the opposite. If only his damn head would stop hurting. Some water would be good. After that, everything could burn for all Rzhavyi cared. Even if Topor came at him, dick at the ready, Rzhavyi would just punch him in the teeth, that’s all.

“You like it, don’t you?” 

Topor’s voice had gone deep and low, and Rzhavyi flinched when the korytnik moved a bit closer and kissed his neck. It was too much all of a sudden: hot lips, fingers cautiously tucked under his T-shirt, the sound of Topor’s breathing so close by. Rzhavyi’s whole body lit up, his heart pounded as if he’d just run the hundred-meter dash at school. 

It was good that Topor couldn't see him — his face must be blushing red, the traitorous bastard. Rzhavyi closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and managed to force himself to speak.

“Back off.”

Topor stopped. He squeezed Rzhavyi’s side painfully — fingers directly between Rzhavyi’s two lower ribs, nails digging in — before releasing him. He then silently jumped up from the couch and, without turning around, dashed into the hallway and slammed the bathroom door.

There was the sound of running water, and Rzhavyi lay still on the couch. He stared at the pale, striped Soviet wallpaper, eyes fixed as if he could see right through it to the concrete wall behind it, through the bathroom tile on the other side. As if he could see what Topor was doing. 

What did it matter what he was doing in there anyway? Rzhavyi threw the blanket off and sat up on the edge of the couch, lowering his bare feet to the floor. Blood rushed to his head so quickly that his vision went dark for a few seconds. His stuff — sweater, sweatpants, and jacket — were lying where he’d left them on the floor. Rzhavyi picked them up and hastily pulled them on, carefully listening to the steady noise of running water coming from the bathroom. It felt like fleeing the scene of a crime before the cops showed up — only there was no crime, and instead of the cops, there was just the korytnik washing up in the bathroom. Just Topor, who may not even try and stop him from leaving.

Rzhavyi almost managed to escape. He was already in his sneakers when the bathroom door opened and banged into his back. Topor’s apartment had a narrow entrance hall; a dark cabinet stretched across one wall, seemingly homemade. Rzhavyi had to plaster himself against the laminated front door[1] to make way for Topor.

Topor was dressed, and he didn't look like he just bathed. On the contrary, his hair was stuck to his forehead and his cheeks were red. He didn’t smell remotely as promised by ads for shower gel or body wash.

“So you’ve made a full recovery then?” Topor frowned at him. He looked gloomy, and didn't move out of the way. 

“Yeah, so what?” 

Rzhavyi was trapped. He was stuck between Topor and two doors: the bathroom door, which had opened into the hallway cabinet, and the front door, which was closed behind him.

“What?” Topor’s jaw muscle clenched and Rzhavyi's stomach dropped in warning. “Are you going to explain to me what the fuck happened yesterday? Do you think you can just show up here, fucking drunk out of your mind? Ask me some more questions and then just fuck off? Do you think that’s normal? What did you even want from me anyway?”

“What makes you think I wanted something?” Rzhavyi stared into his eyes without blinking. He clenched his fists tighter when Topor irritably pushed his hair back from his forehead, and then Topor pressed his broad hands against the closet door on either side of Rzhavyi’s shoulders. 

“I am not fucking blind,” he said angrily. “Do you think I don't see how you look at me? How you pester me all the time, so that I’ll push you face first into the floor? Are you fucking capable of speech? Why are you always bothering me? If you like when men touch you, then just fucking say it. Don't act all coy like a fucking girl.” 

Anyone in the stairwell could probably overhear what Topor was saying. His voice had gone low and feral, filling the cramped entrance to the apartment, pounding at Rzhavyi's head. Topor was clearly no longer watching his mouth, but Rzhavyi couldn't decide whether to put him in his place with words or fists. Or maybe with both, one after the other? 

“Why are you staring at me?” Topor leaned closer to him, blocking out the dim light coming from the hanging bulb in the bathroom. “Fucking tell me — yes or no? Or you can get the fuck out of my sight and make sure I never fucking see you again!” 

His last words came out as a growl. Rzhavyi had sweat beading between his shoulder blades — he was hot in his jacket, and it didn’t help that he remembered how Topor had kissed his neck. He should beat the korytnik’s ass and run, but Topor was staring at him point blank with mad eyes, and even his ears, sticking out from under his hair, had turned bright red. They were almost the color of Topor’s lips. Rzhavyi's brain couldn’t process the question: _Do you like it? Do you? Yes or no?_

Rzhavyi inhaled sharply, as if about to jump in the water. The answer was right in front of him. The answer was angry, in disarray, and wore an expression scary enough to make you shit yourself right there in the hallway, but Rzhavyi was having a different reaction. He clenched his fist in the front of Topor’s t-shirt, squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that he saw spots, and pressed his mouth to the korytnik’s. He didn't even try to kiss him — just pressed his mouth to Topor’s prickly mustache and stopped breathing. He tangled the fingers of his free hand in Topor’s stupid hair, gripping it in his fist.

Topor must have wanted to argue with him, because he finally opened his mouth. Rzhavyi immediately bit his lower lip, digging his teeth in recklessly. Rzhavyi was trembling and his fingers felt ice cold. His dick was hard, as if he’d already jerked off to porn for five minutes straight, but he’d never before seen porn that drove him out of his mind like this. Topor had to draw back: he jerked his head away, pinning Rzhavyi against the closet with his elbow and wiping his mouth with the side of his hand. 

Topor blinked, dumbfounded, when his hand came away pink. 

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Fuck, you are such a dick, Red.”

Rzhavyi tasted copper, but this time it was someone else’s blood. He couldn't catch his breath, and didn't bother to dislodge himself from under Topor’s arm — what would be the point of that now? He leaned his head back against the closet door, and when he answered Topor, his voice came out hoarse:

“Takes one to know one.” 

Topor’s smile was entirely savage, the same one Rzhavyi had seen on his face during the drift race. His insides clenched as the korytnik put his hand on Rzhavyi’s cheek and kissed him on the lips. Topor stuck his tongue between Rzhavyi’s teeth and pressed closer, rubbing his hips against Rzhavyi’s boner, licking Rzhavyi’s mouth from the inside. 

Sensation overwhelmed Rzhavyi like a wave. He gasped, feeling Topor's knee between his legs, shoving persistently forward, and he clutched at the korytnik’s shoulder with his fingers. He’d made out with people before, obviously, but that had been with girls — mostly when he was drunk — and this was entirely different. The skin around his mouth burned, rubbed raw by Topor’s stubble and mustache. Rzhavyi’s lips were covered in spit, and they ached because Topor took every opportunity to bite them, hard. His dick was so fucking hot that he felt like it was in hell. Rzhavyi’s hands gripped Topor tightly, and he summoned all of his willpower to prevent himself from humping Topor’s thigh. Rzhavyi was sweaty where Topor had been groping him under his jacket, his legs trembled and his heart was pounding out of his chest. He moaned into the korytnik’s mouth, tugging at his hair.

“Fuck, that hurts!” 

Topor grabbed Rzhavyi’s wrist and pulled it away from his head, pressing Rzhavyi into the closet door behind him. He pressed the whole length of his body against Rzhavyi, sticking his face into Rzhavyi’s neck. Topor pulled back the collar of Rzhavyi’s sweater and sunk his teeth into the skin beneath Rzhavyi’s ear.

Rzhavyi came in his sweatpants, making an embarrassing “ahhh” noise as he exhaled. He twitched as if having a seizure, pinned between Topor and the closet. Rzhavyi covered his mouth with his palm in an attempt to quell any further noise he might make, and collapsed against the korytnik’s leg. He probably would have slid to the floor if Topor hadn’t had him pinned.

Well this was just a fucking nightmare; a catastrophe, the end, some kind of cosmic joke.

“Hey,” Topor pulled back and let go of his hand, “what’s wrong?” 

The hallway wasn’t as dark as Rzhavyi had thought before. Maybe he should have kept his eyes open while they were kissing. Not hidden his face in the korytnik’s curly hair. 

“What, isn’t it obvious?”

“Well, I just… I didn't think—” Topor scratched his head thoughtfully. His hair was a mess. “Well, you’re just so...”

“I’m ‘just so’ what?” 

Rzhavyi forced himself to make eye contact with Topor and regretted it immediately. He had a smug look on his face, and he looked so slyly pleased with himself that Rzhavyi wondered if he was part Jew. Who knows who his nomads ancestors met on the road? 

“Well,” Topor smiled and glanced at him from under dark eyelashes, “I haven’t even done anything yet.”

“What are you implying?” Rzhavyi pushed Topor away from him. The inside of his pants was warm and wet. Sweat ran down his back. His head still hurt, but it felt better, and the rest of his body ached pleasantly. Rzhavyi didn’t actually care what Topor was hinting at, instead he reacted out of habit; if someone shot off their mouth around Rzhavyi, he made sure they didn’t repeat their mistake.

“I’m not _implying_ anything.” Topor grabbed his hand and didn't let him move towards the front door. “And what are you going to do now? Run away again? How long will I have to wait till you show up here again? A week? Two?” 

Topor’s expression was restless and painful. It was as if he’d switched from one extreme to the other: one minute he smiled and batted his eyes at Rzhavyi like a girl, and the next second he looked ready to kill. The most fucked up part was that Rzhavyi didn’t notice exactly when it had happened. 

“What, can’t wait for me to punch you again?” Rzhavyi tried to tug his hand free from Topor’s grip, but it didn’t move an inch. Topor scowled at him.

“Un-fucking-believable.” 

Topor shook his head, unclenched his fists, and then suddenly turned around and swung a punch at the closet door. It rebounded open, and Topor hit it again with such force that it looked like the wood was going to split. Backing away, Rzhavyi fumbled behind his back with the locks on the front door, trying to prepare for a getaway if Topor decided to beat him instead of the cabinetry. The locks seemed simple enough in case he needed to run; just a key and latch.

“Fuck! You are fucking with my head!” Topor struck the cabinet with his elbow, and then with his knee. Rzhavyi carefully turned the key. “You’re a fucking prick, Red!” 

Rzhavyi had seen this kind of outburst before, but only from people who were shitfaced. Topor wasn’t drunk, but he pounded on the closet as if it was his enemy. The doors strained and creaked, but didn't break, which only seemed to further enrage Topor. 

The latch jammed when Rzhavyi tried to slide it open, and he remembered the frightened face of the driver whom Topor had threatened to sodomize with a rearview mirror. There wasn’t anything like the mirror at hand, but for some reason Rzhavyi felt certain that Topor would find something to make do if necessary.

Rzhavyi literally shuddered when Topor tore a shelf off the wall. It had been sturdily nailed to the wall across from the closet, but now keys, screwdrivers, empty boxes, and a bunch of other shit spilled across the floor. Topor stopped, taking in the mess he’d made. His breathing was harsh and noisy, and he slowly looked up at Rzhavyi.

Rzhavyi let go of the latch. He clenched his hands into fists, hard enough that his nails dug into his palms. He spoke clearly, emphasizing each word. 

“Touch me and I’ll kill you. I swear, I will.” 

What exactly he would use to kill Topor, Rzhavyi had no idea. The broken shelf, maybe, or the dustpan by the door. He hoped he wouldn’t have to; felony assault was one thing, but wetwork was a different deal entirely.

“I won’t,“ Speaking was clearly more difficult for Topor than smashing cabinets and shelves, but he somehow managed to pull himself together. “But if you go outside now, your dick will freeze to your pants.”

“Is that a fucking threat?”

Rzhavyi had no idea what to think. He looked at Topor — standing in the middle of the mess he’d made — and his throat felt dry again. His dick really could freeze in damp underwear if he went outside. It was cold. Hell, it was winter. 

“I won't hurt you.” Topor raised both hands and stepped towards Rzhavyi, holding his arms wide. “Here, see?”

Something cracked under Topor’s feet, but Rzhavyi didn't bother to look down. He’d lost his mind — that was the only explanation. Maybe he’d been infected with Topor's batshit craziness when they’d kissed? It was some kind of faggot shit that messed with his head and made him do fucked up things.

“Come on, let’s get you some clean underwear.”

Topor's hands trembled, but as promised, he kept them to himself. Rzhavyi stared at his face for a full minute, looking at his dark curls and slanted cheekbones; his eyebrows pulled down into a frown and his lips still red from kissing; his facial hair and skin, dotted with moles. Rzhavyi stared into his eyes, but not for long. Really. 

He leaned forward and kissed Topor firmly, curling his fingers behind Topor’s ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Footnotes:_  
>   
>  1\. _Laminated front door_ \- covered in vinyl contact paper, like shelf liners.  
> [ return to text ]


	11. Senya

Downing some noodles, Rzhavyi poked around a laptop infected with viruses — a second launch of Kaspersky and Noda seemed to have fixed most of the problems, but the operating system had crashed and some of the files on the hard drive were corrupted. The client also wanted to install a couple of programs that Rzhavyi couldn't find keygens for, so he had to write them himself. The whole thing took twice as long as it was supposed to, and Rzhavyi was working overtime in the garage as 10 p.m. drew closer and closer.

Rzhavyi was nervous. He checked the clock every other minute. 

Four days ago, on Monday, Topor had shoved a pair of clean underwear into Rzhavyi’s hands and waited until he’d changed — in private. Rzhavyi hadn’t dared to take off his underwear in front of Topor, so he’d locked himself in the bathroom, stuffed his jizz soaked underwear in the pocket of his sweatpants, and emerged into the hallway. 

“What are you doing today?” 

Rzhavyi smiled at the black laptop screen, remembering how Topor had asked: leaning his shoulder against the door frame, arms folded across his wide chest, gazing at Rzhavyi in a way that made him immediately lose his train of thought. Rzhavyi had replied that he’d needed to work. Topor had hesitated for a second and sighed, before saying that he would give Rzhavyi a ride to the garage. 

On Ofitserskaya Street, Rzhavyi had kissed him senseless. It was good that the car windows were tinted. Topor had parked the car so that it was facing a windowless back wall, between a _Gazelle_ and some kind of truck. At first, Rzhavyi was uncomfortable and awkward; the gear stick, Topor’s nose, his own teeth — everything seemed to be in the way, but Topor didn't let him go, not giving him a moment to catch his breath. 

“Maybe you can call in sick today?” Topor's cheeks flushed again, and he framed Rzhavyi’s face with his large hands. “Let's go back to my place, huh? I have to leave town tonight on business and won't get back till Friday.”

Rzhavyi’s phone rang in his pocket. Rodionov probably had clients already and was wondering where he was. Topor lowered his hand to Rzhavyi's knee and squeezed it, stroking his leg and staring at him, waiting for an answer. He had dark eyes, with curls that any girl would envy. He moved his hand up Rzhavyi’s leg, rubbing his thumb across Rzhavyi's balls. Fuck, Topor was playing dirty. Rzhavyi gritted his teeth. He’d been hard for so long, long enough that even jerking off right there seemed appealing, but the job wouldn’t do itself. Rzhavyi had already taken all of his sick leave, between the gangsters, and the hard drive, his sprained foot and that flu — whatever it had been.

He’d jumped out of the car with his phone pressed to his ear, saying a rushed goodbye to Topor. If he’d let himself stay a couple minutes more, the only place he would have gone would have been back to Topor’s apartment — to completely corrupt him with this faggot debauchery — and the thought both embarassed and excited Rzhavyi. 

" _i’ll be back in the city around 10 where should I pick you up_?"

Topor had texted him around 6pm Rzhavyi sent him the garage’s address — figuring that he wouldn’t be getting off work early — and since then he’d been watching the clock. He typed away at the code, and drank his tea, which had long ago gone cold.

He finished cracking both software programs at 9:45 and rebooted the laptop. Someone pounded hard on the door; Topor had probably arrived early. He wasn’t expecting anyone else, as the garage’s opening hours were from 9am to 9pm.

Only after pressing the button to raise the security shutters, Rzhavyi remembered the gangsters. That they’d already come by the garage looking for him before. He realized too late — the metal grate rose and Rzhavyi saw two pairs or legs, before the rest of Blednii and his driver slowly became visible. 

“Sup,” Blednii said warmly, “Done running from us, nerd?” 

Rzhavyi hadn’t actually made that much of an effort to run. He hadn’t answered any calls from unknown numbers, and a couple of days ago, when he’d recognized a Mercedes “Gelik” idling near his front door, he’d turned and walked through a neighboring courtyard to Dead’s place. Since then, the gangsters hadn’t bothered him. Rzhavyi had decided that they had found a replacement, or thought that he was not worth the extra effort. 

Now the familiar Mercedes was parked in front of the garage, and Blednii, looking around, came inside. He sat down in the well-worn armchair Rzhavyi used to take a nap or eat his lunch in.

“Get a chair, sit down.” Blednii waved his hand in the direction of the desk, atop which the laptop’s fan quietly whirred. He grinned unpleasantly. “Let’s talk.”

“Business hours are over.” Rzhavyi didn’t move from where he stood. “If you need something repaired you can leave it here. I'll take a look at it tomorrow.”

“I don’t understand. What do you think, Kolyan?” Blednii pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket, taking his time to light it, looking at the driver. “Is he really that much of an idiot? Or does he think we are?”

“You heard what he said.” Kolyan was huge and built like a brick shithouse. He pushed Rzhavyi aside with a fist to his spine, and pressed the button to lower the shutters. “Get on with it.”

The metal grate descended with thuds and clicks. Inside, the garage must have gotten warmer, but Rzhavyi didn't feel it. He walked to the desk and glanced down at the laptop's screen — it had rebooted — and the clock in the corner of the screen showed 21:53. Topor promised to arrive at ten. Rzhavyi didn’t want to get him involved in this mess. 

“Well, what do you want?” Rzhavyi pulled up a chair to sit across from Blednii, feeling Kolyan silently move to stand behind him — to knock him out, if Rzhavyi decided to suddenly make a move. But Rzhavyi didn't intend to start anything — he was outmatched. And Blednii had offered to talk. 

“It’s simple,” Sergey’s cheek twitched. [1] He exhaled smoke and smiled wryly, leaning back in his chair. “Easy peasy. You enter a house, quietly copy some information off of a server, and then get back in the car. You give me the data, I give you the cash, and you are scot-free.”

“So now you think I’m the idiot.” Rzhavyi lit a cigarette, squeezing the lighter tightly so that his hands wouldn’t shake. “That doesn’t sound fucking ‘simple.’ What do you mean by house? And information? What if someone’s there?”

“They won’t be.” Blednii watched him like a hawk, his expression unchanging. “We'll make sure everyone is asleep. As for the data, you don’t need to know. Just copy everything off of the hard drive. Do it so that no one knows you were there. You work neatly — think of it as Vladimir Leonidovich hiring you for a permanent position. You wanna leave this shithole behind, don't you, Arseny Borisovich?”

Hearing his full name — and the talk of putting people “to sleep” — made Rzhavyi's hand tremble. Blednii watched him silently, waiting for an answer. The gold chain around Sergei’s neck caught Rzhavyi’s eye, and he thought of the “Gelik” parked outside, about sleeping on the uncomfortable living-room sofa in his parent’s one-bedroom apartment in their Khrushchev-style building. For some reason, he thought of the sea, about what it looked like: vaster than the Volga, with fine white sand, palm trees, and a pool. [2] In the middle of the pool was always a bar stocked with a cool beer. Rzhavyi had seen it on TV.

“I can do everything remotely.” Rzhavyi flicked the ash off of his cigarette onto the uneven concrete floor. “The servers are online, right? Why do I have to go into the house?”

Sergey grinned. He put his cigarette out on one of the iron shelving units that stretched across the wall. He threw the butt into a can on the shelf. 

“The conditions of the job are non-negotiable.” he said, rising from his chair. “I see you need some time to think, so think. This is to help you think clearly.”

Rzhavyi clenched his cigarette between his lips as Blednii approached him, but didn't move away or stand up. Sergei pulled open the pocket of Rzhavyi’s windbreaker and folded some banknotes into it. Rzhavyi didn't manage to get a good look at it, but it didn’t look like Russian rubles. Blednii patted him on the shoulder.

“No more running.” Blednii’s voice was calm, even friendly, but the vein on his cheek twitched again. “We’ll find you, no matter what.”

The gangsters didn’t say anything else. Rzhavyi lowered the shutters behind them and pressed his forehead to the cold metal surface. His heart was pounding, his fingers like ice, and his insides were twisted into an anxious knot. The bills Sergey had put in his pocket turned out to be three hundred American bucks. Rzhavyi had never in his life held dollars in his own two hands — not even once — let alone know what the current exchange rate was. Twenty-three rubles to the dollar? Twenty-five? He pushed the money back into his pocket and zipped it shut, before someone pounded on the door yet again.

Topor ducked under the shutter, not waiting for it to rise all the way, and Rzhavyi, hitting the the button again, froze. For some reason he was unsure of himself, silently staring at Topor, his hand on the switch for the door. 

“Whatcha staring at?” 

Topor was anything but unsure. He stepped towards Rzhavyi, grabbing him with both hands and poking his cold nose into Rzhavyi’s neck. He squeezed Rzhavyi tightly, as if he wanted to break his ribs. He smelled of gasoline, the plastic interior of his car, cologne, and the sharp smell of new leather. He was wearing a leather jacket Rzhavyi hadn’t seen him in before. It was crisp, without any creases. 

“Do you wanna go to the movies?” Topor kissed him, pulled away for a second, and then kissed him again. “Or for a beer at the bar? Or shall we go straight to my place?”

“You want to go to the movies? What am I, a fucking girl?” 

Rzhavyi pursed his lips, closing his eyes and clutching the lapels of Topor’s jacket, pulling him closer. Maybe it wasn’t a bad idea to go to see a movie or get a drink. It would help him forget about Blednii’s proposal. The thought of it still bothered him, even as Topor, with a chuckle, slid his cold hands under Rzhavyi’s sweater. 

“Definitely not a girl.” Topor groped Rzhavyi’s chest through his t-shirt — which, embarrassingly, really turned Rzhavyi on — before moving his hands to Rzhavyi’s waist. “Okay. Let's go get in the car. Who was that outside with the fancy license plate? You can tell me on the way.”

“No one, just work.” 

Pushing Topor aside, Rzhavyi walked over to the desk. He turned off the laptop and grabbed his phone and keys. He took his hat off the shelf and pulled it on, shoving his wayward hair under it. Topor silently watched him. He lowered his hands, and then, when Rzhavyi had pulled his warm jacket over his windbreaker, Topor walked over and opened the shutters himself.

“Well clearly it was about work and not a social call,” Topor said as they stood outside. Rzhavyi was locking up. “What did they have? A broken phone?”

“Laptop,” Rzhavyi shrugged. Without looking at Topor, he walked to the car, which was a little way off. “Their hard drive crashed.“

“And they left it with you? Overnight in the garage? With a lock that can be picked in five minutes flat?” 

“So?” Rzhavyi grabbed the car door handle, but Topor slapped his palm against the door, preventing Rzhavyi from opening it. Topor frowned at him from under the visor of his hat. “Move your hand. What are you interrogating me for? I didn’t ask you what you were doing when you were out of town, did I?”

Topor shook his head and lowered his hand. He seemed to want to say something, but instead went around the car and got in on the driver’s side. Rzhavyi silently put on his seatbelt, clicking it in place before placing his hands on his knees. The evening wasn’t going well. Rzhavyi had thought it would be a good distraction, but Topor kept pestering him with questions and wasn’t buying his lies. He felt embarrassed about lying in the first place — Topor hadn’t meant any harm. He was probably just asking because he wanted to help. 

“Go on, if you want, you can ask me where I went.” The engine roared, and the car lurched forward, its wheels briefly spinning in the slush. “It’s not a fucking secret. At least, not from you.”

“Where are we going now?”

From Ofitserskaya Street, Topor drove away from the city center. He ran a yellow light and accelerated down a straight road, going over a hundred kilometers an hour. He overtook the occasional car, skirting into the opposing lane as he did so.

“We’re going for a drive until you tell me everything that’s going on with those gangsters. I’ll go all night if I have to.”

Rzhavyi exhaled through clenched teeth. Behind them there was a honk from a car that Topor had cut off. Although Blednii had made some promises, Rzhavyi definitely wasn’t planning on dying today. With the way Topor was driving, his odds weren’t great.

“They offered me a job,” he said, turning to look at Topor. 

“What kind of job?”

“It’s a long story.” Rzhavyi glanced at the red speedometer and waited until it dropped down to the hundred mark. “I don’t think they’ll take no for an answer.”

“Did they threaten you?” Topor turned at the next intersection and slowed down, carefully bypassing any cars in their way. “Or do you already owe them something?”

Rzhavyi pulled off his hat with a sigh. The car’s heater was cranked up to full blast — not surprising, as Topor had only a t-shirt under his leather jacket, unlike Rzhavyi, who was wearing a t-shirt, a sweatshirt, a windbreaker, and a puffy jacket. Did the korytnik know something about gangsters? If his father owned a chop shop and Topor sort of worked there, maybe he knew about it? He was talking about being indebted to gangsters as if it was entirely normal, like an overdue payment on a bank loan.

“I don't owe them anything.” Rzhavyi had to get out of his jacket or he was going to boil inside it like a sausage. “They were very insistent. And this job could land me in prison.”

“How did they find you?” Topor asked sharply. “And what do they want you to do?”

Rzhavyi was silent. Tall apartment buildings flashed by as they drove down Kosmonavtov Boulevard. [3] The light threatened to change at the Dzerzhinskogo Street, but Topor — hitting the gas — drove through the intersection and pulled into the parking lot of a shopping mall. Rzhavyi didn’t want to think about everything that had happened with Blednii and Vladimir Leonidovich, but it suddenly became hard to keep to himself. Fuck. Especially now, with Topor having parked the car, staring at him worried and attentively. As if he cared about Rzhavyi.

“Yeah, I’ve worked for them before.” He unfastened his seat belt and rubbed his damp palms on his thighs, looking at a pole in the parking lot marked with a large F and two green stripes. “But everything was legal. I just recovered some files from a hard drive. But now they want to off someone and steal something. Like, they’d do all of the serious shit, and I have to quietly copy data off the servers and sneak out.”

“I don’t understand.” Topor frowned, tossing his hat in the back seat and ruffled the hair on the back of his head with his hand. “Are you, like, a hacker or something?”

“Sorta, yeah.”

“Oh,” said Topor. “I thought you just fixed mobile phones. Turns out you’re hella smart.”

Topor’s tone wasn’t mocking. He was looking at Rzhavyi as if seeing him for the first time, scanning him up and down, from the top of his head, to the hands Rzhavyi had clasped together in his lap as he grew nervous.

“Do you think fixing phones is easy?” asked Rzhavyi, just to have something to say. 

“Fuck, maybe not,” said Topor. He smiled briefly, almost imperceptibly, before becoming serious. He spoke quickly, moving closer to Rzhavyi. “Listen, if they don’t have anything on you, refuse. Say that you can't, that you don’t know how to hack passwords, I don’t know, make up something. Be in the hospital for a week — if you don’t know anyone, I’ll help you forge a doctor’s note, problems with your stomach, or intestines, or some shit. Stay out of it, I’m telling you. Don't do it. Maybe it’ll be easy money, but then you won’t be able to go clean. It will only get worse. It’ll swallow you whole, and you won’t be able to get out.”

“How do you know?”

Topor tucked his curls behind his ears. He wiped his fist under his nose, sniffed, and said quietly, “I know. I drive cars for my dad from one city to another. That G-Wagen car that was parked up front? I was fucking fed up with it. I have no idea who was driving it — I didn’t give it to them — but I recognized that piece of shit. I drove it like it was made of glass — not a scratch on it. I didn’t go over a hundred kilometers an hour. I even washed it till it shone. They still found some bullshit reason to complain. I had to bring them a second car for free. After that I decided I’m never doing that shit again. Ever.

After a moment Topor took a deep breath, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. He also stared at the green “F” on the pole. Rzhavyi then realized how this story ended.

“You ran out of cash, huh?”

“Yes,” Topor said, annoyed. 

In front of the next row of cars in the parking lot was a pole with the letter “G” on it. To the right of that was the letter “H.” Rzhavyi assumed they continued on. If he could see all of them, Rzhavyi would have recited the entire English alphabet in his head as he and Topor sat there silently staring at the letters. He managed to memorize the license plates of the ten cars across from them, along with their makes, what region they were from, the stickers on their windshields, and the dealership names on the frames around the license plates.

“Alright.” Topor pulled the keys out of the ignition and put them in his pocket. “Here’s the plan: first — we’re going to see a movie. Next — we’ll eat. Tomorrow we’re going to decide what to do about these assholes that are messing with you.”

“Stay out of my business,” Rzhavyi frowned. 

“Cut it out, will you?” Topor looked at him with a strange, unreadable smile. Rzhavyi had never been told to shut up with such care before, let alone have someone offer to help him solve his problems. Actually saying that they’d help out loud. Or promising to do it tomorrow. Nothing. Was this good or bad? Rzhavyi had no idea, but it certainly was wrong.

“I made myself clear. Back off.”

He got out of the car before Topor could answer him. The parking lot was windy and freezing. He heard a car door slam behind him. Topor caught up with him by the “H” pole and walked silently beside him, shoulder to shoulder as if glued together. Rzhavyi glanced at his gloomy and determined face out of the corner of his eye, but kept quiet. Topor was silent too.

They went up the escalator and Rzhavyi felt Topor glaring at his back. Rzhavyi looked at the bright store signs and the restaurants in the food court, clenching his fists in the pockets of his sweatpants. He caught both of their reflections in the sparkling store windows. At the cinema entrance they ran into girls who were talking as they walked. They giggled and smiled at Topor, glanced at Rzhavyi, and then ran off, leaving behind the cloying smell of perfume. 

“What movie do you want to see?” Topor's voice sounded dry and reserved.

Rzhavyi lifted his head, reading the display above the cash register, picking at a hangnail on his thumb. He smoothed down the hair sticking up on his head. Everyone here was dressed up, happy and smiling. No one was frowning like Topor was, except for maybe Rzhavyi.

“I don't know,” he answered, finally looking Topor in the eyes. “I haven’t seen any of these.” 

Topor held his gaze for a second. The queue moved forward. The boy and girl ahead of them finished buying their tickets and stepped aside.

“Hello,” said Topor, leaning his elbow against the counter. “What is your next showing? Are there any seats left?”

“Aliens vs. Predator: Requiem,” replied the girl, looking at her monitor. “Yes, there are. Please select your seats, the free spots are green.”

The second screen — the one facing them — blinked, showing numbered squares. Rzhavyi stared at them. There were some unoccupied spots in the eighth row, or the ninth, or a couple other options. He stared at the screen, apparently, for too long. Topor, glancing at the monitor, loudly said, “Senya, a little faster, eh?”

Rzhavyi tore at the hangnail till it bled. He worried at the skin of his finger with his teeth. The green squares had lost all meaning: Topor had called him by his name. Not Rzhavyi, not Red, not an asshole or a dick. Senya, just like that, in the middle of the crowd. As if it wasn’t the first time. 

“Give us the seventh row.” Rzhavyi exhaled in a hoarse, shamefully brittle voice, hiding his hand in his pocket. “The tenth and eleventh seats.”

The girl said something to Topor, smiling, but Rzhavyi was no longer listening. He wanted to give Topor money, but he’d left it all in his jacket in the car, along with his mobile phone. The movie started in ten minutes, and Topor, taking the tickets, patted him on the back and nodded toward the theatres.

“Why are you so acting so weird?” Topor asked when they were seated. The lights went out, and he tilted his head closer, murmuring in Rzhavyi’s ear. “Are you fucking upset about something again? Am I not allowed to take you to the movies? If not, then why didn't you say something?”

“How did you find out my name?”

“What?” Topor breathed on his neck. “I looked at your passport. It’s a good name. Definitely, better than that thuggish nickname of yours.”

Rzhavyi's stomach twisted at his voice, a soft tingling running down his body. The big screen ahead of them was playing advertisements and announcing new movies. Rzhavyi clung to the left armrest and clenched his right hand into a fist, pressing it to his thigh. It wasn’t worth fighting in a movie theater. He took a deep breath, getting ready to curse Topor out for disrespecting him. 

He almost succeeded. Almost. Topor moved his hand under the armrest between them and covered Rzhavyi’s fist with his hand. He briefly stroked Rzhavyi’s knuckles with his fingers. Startled, Rzhavyi reflexively turned to look at him — Topor looked straight ahead, his head set stubbornly. His nostrils quivered, as if he were ready to climb over all seven rows of seats and ram his head into the screen. 

Rzhavyi's palms were, predictably, sweating. The hall was dark, and a blue and black film about space began. No one around them was paying any attention to him and Topor. Rzhavyi relaxed his fist, and Topor immediately laced their fingers together, gripping tightly and leaning towards Rzhavyi over the armrest. 

Rzhavyi had a moment to worry that the korytnik would be stupid enough to try and make out with him right there; he even jerked, plastering himself to the chair behind him, but Topor turned his head and spoke into his ear again.

“I don’t remember you ever calling me anything normal,” The movie grew louder, and Topor raised his voice, squeezing Rzhavyi's hand more firmly, “But if you get the urge, then ‘Renat’ will do just fine, ok?”

On the screen, many-legged aliens writhed in transparent tanks. Topor’s hair tickled Rzhavyi’s cheek. One of the alien fuckers attacked the Predator, resulting in a fountain of acid-green slime. Rzhavyi frowned, but Senya ran his thumb across Topor’s palm — carefully, just trying it out, seeing how it felt, not touching Topor, or some fucking korytnik from the courtyard, but Renat. 

“There,” Topor told him. “Now, do you want me to explain what's going on? This pussy-assed monsterfucker is the alien's larva. Fucking scary motherfucker. If I saw it, fuck, I’d shit myself. Oh god, it’s going to eat the second one in a minute. Oh fuck! Did you see that, Senya?”

“I saw it,” Rzhavyi kept smiling, squinting at Topor, and deciding to warn him, just in case he decided to chat again. “If you don’t shut up, I'll punch you for sure. Yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FOOTNOTES
> 
>   
> (1) Sergey - Blednii's real name, which we learned from the mob boss in a previous chapter. [ return to text ]  
>   
> (2) Volga - Europe's longest river, which runs through Russia.[ return to text ]  
>   
> (3) Kosmonavtov Boulevard - This is "Cosmonaut street." Many Russian streets and landmarks are named after the space race. [ return to text ]  
> 


	12. The Bath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in publishing this one! Our translation team had a busy two weeks. We will be back to our regular weekly posting schedule this coming Wednesday.
> 
> There is also a playlist that was made by a fan for this fic! It is on Yandex music [here](https://music.yandex.ru/users/room483/playlists/1000?from=iframe)
> 
> Unfortunately, Yandex is difficult to access outside of Russia, but SleepingPatterns has made a version on Spotify [here:](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2D6cLdmbQtLJHo7SQg9hT3?si=0ZEbJrkyTtqlikYR3tyesg)
> 
> Enjoy!

By the end of the film, Rzhavyi was so hungry that his stomach—empty and rumbling—was the only thing he could think of. Topor was yakking away, recounting the plots of the first two Predator movies on the way to the car. Rzhavyi didn't understand any of it and didn’t make much of an effort to. He just walked alongside Topor, nodding and saying “mhm,” or “yeah” while dreaming of devouring a whole chicken, or a steak, or some fancy sausages with potatoes. 

The pub’s menu had the exact sausages he had imagined. They came with sauerkraut, pickled cucumbers, and mashed potatoes. Rzhavyi had never eaten anything so delicious in his life, not even in kindergarten.[1]

“Don’t choke.” Topor warned, sitting across from him. He chewed while he spoke, tearing strips of a chicken off a drumstick with his crooked teeth. “It’s not going to run away, you know.” 

Rzhavyi couldn't reply immediately. The bite he’d taken barely fit in his mouth. Topor—who had been staring at him incessantly—suddenly busied himself with his plate, poking around the thick sauce with a spoon. 

“And who are you to tell me not to?” Rzhavyi washed down the defeated sausage with a sip of dark beer. “I can figure out how to eat all by myself.”

“You’re so fucking cheeky.” Topor gnawed on a drumstick and licked his lips, which were covered in sauce. “Don't get all pissed off.”

“Excuse me?”

“What,” Topor said in a low and dangerous voice. He clenched his spoon in his fist, frowning. For some reason, it reminded Rzhavyi of a prison shiv. Topor probably wouldn't even have to sharpen it, just drive it straight through someone’s forehead. Blunt end first. He was definitely strong enough to manage.

Rzhavyi wasn’t scared—the thought was making his dick hard in his pants. The longer he looked at Topor, the worse—or better?—it got.

“Nothing.” He scooped up some cabbage with his fork, spreading his legs so that his crotch didn’t bother him. “This is tasty.”

“Alright, then eat it quietly.” Topor put his spoon down and picked up his second drumstick. White sauce got all over his lips and fingers, dripping onto mustache, beard, and plate. Chewing his cabbage, Rzhavyi still couldn't wrap his head around why he liked it: Topor’s non-Russian features, his calloused hands—nothing like a girl’s small and smooth ones—just his appearance in general. Rzhavyi realized with a start that he now had to live with this: instead of showing interest in a girl, his dick got hard for a hairy man who was almost two meters tall. Topor could only be mistaken for a woman if you had no idea what a woman looked like in the first place.

Rzhavyi didn't want to think about it. Not now, not ever. He was used to going with the flow, not asking philosophical questions. All of this self-analysis fucking bothered him. He’d never fucked a girl. He’d only jerked off to porn when his parents were out. He barely got the chance once a month. The rest of the time, Rzhavyi jerked off quickly in the locked bathroom. He didn’t fantasize about anyone because his drunken father could start banging on the door at any minute. And Rzhavyi found all of the sluts that hung around the courtyard repulsive. He couldn’t do that with them.

But it turned out that, with Topor, he could. Even when it wasn’t actual sex, just Topor’s knee between his legs, with Topor’s huge hands groping him in the cramped hallway. 

“When I told you to eat quietly, I didn’t mean like that.” Topor pushed his empty plate to the edge of the table and slammed his cutlery down on it—he’d used his spoon, but not touched his knife and fork. They were meant to be eaten with, but Topor didn’t seem to care. 

“So decide what the fuck you want.” Rzhavyi put a slice of pickle in his mouth and almost closed his eyes because it was so crisp and tasty. “And be more specific.”

You weren’t supposed to lick your fingers at a decent restaurant, but Rzhavyi did it anyway. It was a bit dark in the pub. The finicky wrought iron lamps didn’t do shit, they only carved out sections of the darkness along the stone-trimmed walls. A wooden beam ran across the ceiling to the other end of the hall, where a fire danced in the fireplace. The fireplace was probably electric—who would bother to maintain a real fire all the time? Yeah, and you wouldn’t want to provoke the safety inspector.[2]

“Do you want anything else?” Topor fiddled with the large mug of buckthorn tea[3] between his hands.

Rzhavyi had drunk a liter of beer. He was sleepy and warm, and had wriggled out of his sweater. His T-shirt had been washed one too many times. The collar had been stretched out, and it was a couple sizes too big, not to mention wrinkled and not terribly fresh. Topor had turned up wearing his Sunday best. Rzhavyi could smell his cologne from across the table, and his T-shirt seemed almost too white—definitely clean—and quite tight. Rzhavyi could see the bumps of his nipples through the fabric. Not that Rzhavyi had paid too much attention previously, but he didn’t remember the korytnik looking like this, as if he was on a date.

Was that what they were doing then? Out on a date? What else could you call it? First a movie, then a restaurant, and then what? Rzhavyi had stuffed himself to the point where he couldn’t stomach another bite or take another sip of beer. He wasn’t going to play hard to get and come up with some excuse like a girl, right? Rzhavyi felt incomprehensibly anxious. He hadn’t fought people twice his size—knowing that he would lose—only to get nervous now and retreat with his tail between his legs. 

“Nope, nothing else.” He reached into his jacket pocket, rummaging around and pulling out a couple crumpled and chewed-up bills. It wasn’t enough to cover them both, but it was all Rzhavyi had on him. That, and the dollars from the gangsters. “Let's ask for the bill.”

Topor looked at the cash in his hands. Silently, he raised his hand to flag down the waitress, who was serving the next table. Glancing at his own interlaced fingers, he said to Rzhavyi, “I wanted to buy you flowers.”

“What?” 

At first, Rzhavyi thought that he had misheard. That Topor had wanted to buy him another beer, or something else normal. Not flowers. He gaped at Topor, trying to pull himself together. He pictured the maroon roses that guys gave to their girlfriends—one hundred rubles apiece—in cellophane wrap, stamped with a gold design around the edges. Out of nowhere, Rzhavyi laughed. He couldn’t say what was so funny, or why Topor’s face was so serious when he’d brought up the flowers. 

“Why are you laughing?” Topor shoved the cash into the bill folder that the waitress had brought them. He wasn’t smiling, only looking grimly at Rzhavyi. Rising from the table, he threw his leather jacket over his shoulders. Topor stuck his arms in the sleeves as he walked out the door, not looking back. 

Rzhavyi shoved the bill folder at the waitress, telling her to keep the change. He hastily pulled on his sweater and jacket and ran to catch up with Topor, who had already made it to the car.

“What’s wrong? I don’t get it.” Rzhavyi stopped in front of him, wrapping his jacket more tightly around himself. 

Topor stood there with his jacked unzipped and a cigarette between his teeth. He looked so pissed off that Rzhavyi wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam come off him. He was as angry as a bull. He took a drag off the cigarette and exhaled thick smoke, before spitting in the snow and shrugging one shoulder. “Nothing.”

There was an open space next to them in the packed parking lot. A black Pajero slowly pulled in. Rzhavyi tensed, glancing quickly at the plates—they were ordinary, not the gangsters’—and immediately berated himself for panicking. Was he afraid of all tinted Jeeps now? A girl got out of the car in a short fur coat with a bunch of those fucking roses in her hands. The man—who had opened the door for her—looked at Topor’s car with suspicion, and then at the two of them. He grabbed his girlfriend under the elbow as she stumbled in her high heels, and led her into the restaurant. 

“That's what you want, isn’t it?” asked Rzhavyi, looking at Topor. “Maybe I should smear on some lipstick and wear some fucking lacy panties?”

He was angry now too. He was furious that the gangsters had made him afraid of his shadow. More than that, he was pissed that Topor was going to give him shitty flowers, like he was some chick. That he’d taken Rzhavyi to the movies and fed him. Rzhavyi had agreed to everything, and yet, somehow it was still his fault that Topor was now pissed off.

“If I wanted that, you wouldn’t be standing here now,” Topor said sharply. Steam poured out of his mouth after all. It was cold. “I don’t need lipstick and lace.”

“Then why do I need flowers?”

Topor stubbornly pursed his lips, throwing his cigarette butt into the muddy slush that covered the asphalt. He pulled open his car door. Before climbing in, he blurted out “I don’t know. I have no fucking clue how to do it right. With you.”

The car door slammed loudly, like a tin can thundering across the floor. Clenching his fists, Rzhavyi barely restrained himself from yanking open the door, pulling Topor out of the car, and punching him properly in the face. But what would that solve at the end of the day? Rzhavyi had no idea. Therefore, sitting in a car, Rzhavyi immediately choked out, “I also don’t know. But I'm not a chick, and I’m not some fucking fag, so don’t fucking—” Rzhavyi stammered, the words escaping him, “Basically. You got it?”

“Fucking—don’t do what?” asked Topor, turning to look at him. “You don’t need wooing? Alright then Senya, let’s go. We’ll fuck.”

Topor smiled, cautiously at first, before breaking into such a wide grin that Rzhavyi couldn't keep a serious expression on his face. They stared at each other, sitting in the slowly warming car, until Topor turned away and accelerated—abruptly as usual—as if preparing to shoot his car out of the solar system, or at least to the moon. 

So that Topor didn't think to offer him tea or some other shit, like he might do for a girl before fucking them, Rzhavyi pulled him into a kiss. Not in the car, of course, but in the apartment, right there in the hallway, with the lights off. It was somehow more difficult for Rzhavyi with the lights on. Topor tried to turn them on in the living room too, but Rzhavyi grabbed his hand. “Don’t,” Rzhavyi exhaled, hoarsely. He pulled off his sweater and sat on the edge of the sofa bed.

“I want to look at you.” Topor sat next to him, clasping Rzhavyi’s face in his hands peering into his eyes in the darkness. “This way I can’t see shit.”

With the lights on, Rzhavyi never would have let him do something like that. He grabbed Topor’s belt and fumbled to undo it. Topor exhaled loudly before trying to help, but he only got in the way.

They somehow shed their clothing. By the time Topor was wearing only his underwear, Rzhavyi was almost shaking. With a hand on his shoulder, Topor pushed Rzhavyi to lie back on the sofa. In one smooth motion he hiked up Rzhavyi’s knee and rubbed his whole body against him. Topor was hot, breathing heavily, and had a hard-on that was pressed right between Rzhavyi’s legs. The pressure was simultaneously painful and so fucking good. Rzhavyi grabbed Topor’s hair, grinding their hips together as he moaned into Topor’s mouth and bit his lip. 

Rzhavyi completely stopped thinking. What was there to think about in the face of so many new sensations? Topor pulled back a bit and slid his hand between their bellies. He pulled Rzhavyi’s dick out of his underwear and Rzhavyi almost bucked off of the couch. Rzhavyi drew in a shallow breath and exhaled through tightly clenched teeth. Their hard-ons rubbed against each other. Topor pressed both their dicks against Rzhavyi’s belly and moved his hips as if already fucking him, making Rzhavyi’s head spun. Rzhavyi—half delirious—groped Topor’s back, dragging his fingers over his hard muscles, touching everywhere he could reach. Topor’s broad and shaggy silhouette was framed with light from the window, and Rzhavyi stared at him so hard that he could see spots dancing before his eyes. 

His mouth was unbelievably fucking dry. Topor suddenly stopped, and Rzhavyi barely understood what he wanted as Topor attempted to pull him into another position. Topor sat on the couch, stretching out his legs with his back to the wall, and Rzhavyi sat in his lap.

“Red,” he said hoarsely in Rzhavyi’s ear, “give me your hand, huh?”

Rzhavyi already knew what to do. Topor's dick turned out to be bigger than his, but nothing special. Rzhavyi squeezed it tighter, stroking experimentally a few times like he touched himself. He had to press his forehead to Topor’s bare shoulder when Topor began to reciprocate. It was already so fucking good. Squeezing his eyes shut, Rzhavyi moaned, crying out, “Fuck. Ah, fu-fuck.” He was overwhelmed as he finished, arching so painfully that he could probably break his back.

He was twitching like that one time in the hallway. Topor wrapped his fist around Rzhavyi’s fingers on his own dick and moved his hand faster, breathing heavily. He grabbed Rzhavyi’s ass with his free hand, trying to pull him closer. Rzhavyi didn’t have the strength to move, even though Topor’s fingers were almost touching his asshole through his disheveled underwear. 

Topor also swore as he finished. 

Somewhere between “fuck” and “shit,” Rzhavyi heard his own name and shuddered again. Topor slipped his hand behind Rzhavyi’s balls and pressed hard. Rzhavyi could now say with certainty that there were no parts of his body that Topor had not touched. He spread his legs wider—as wide as the muscles of his groin would allow—and pressed his forehead to the wall behind Topor. His belly and fist were covered in someone else's warm cum. Topor exhaled contentedly into the crook of his neck and wrapped his sticky hand around Rzhavyi’s back.

“Holy shit.” Topor’s voice was husky, as if he was about to purr like a touch-starved stray cat. “Senya, grab the water. In the kettle, over there on the table. Mmm?”

Instead of a “please,” Topor kissed him. Rzhavyi was thirsty too—his mouth was like sandpaper—so he didn’t pick a fight over it. He climbed off of Topor’s lap and walked to the kitchen in just his underwear, all sweaty with his stomach covered in cum. He drank a whole mug of water, staring out the dark window. He splashed more water into the cup, and returned to the living room. 

Topor was turning the light on. Not the overhead light, thank god, but a floor lamp in the corner by the radiator, its white lampshade askew. Topor crawled back across the couch, sitting on his knees and taking the cup from Rzhavyi. 

“Why are you standing there?” He smiled and took a couple big gulps or water. He shamelessly checked Rzhavyi out from head to toe. “Come here. What time is it?”

Rzhavyi had no idea. His phone was somewhere in his jacket pocket, and he didn't want to think about it. He collapsed on the sofa and grabbed the blanket, wrapping himself up like a caterpillar in a cocoon. Topor put out the light and crawled to his side, fumbling with the blanket until he could get underneath it. Topor was smiling again—Rzhavyi couldn’t see him, but for some reason he was absolutely certain of it. 

“Reyhan’s coming over tomorrow around three o'clock.” Topor persisted until he had both arms wrapped around Rzhavyi, his shaggy head on Rzhavyi’s chest. “Pasha too. You’ll stay, right? Senya? What, are you asleep already?”

Rzhavyi desperately wanted to sleep. He couldn’t keep his eyes open and Topor was like a massive hot water bottle. He had no plans for tomorrow. He stirred, pulling his numb arm out from under the blanket and laying it across Topor’s back—what, was he going to lie there like a log, his hands at his sides as if he was in kindergarten? Sighing carefully, he said: 

“Sure, I’ll stay.” 

Topor didn't reply. His breathing had gone deep and even—so he’d been the one to fall asleep then. Rzhavyi lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling as strips of light glided across it, shining through the window from the headlights of cars in the courtyard. It was so fucking strange, falling asleep in bed, embracing a man. If someone had predicted this, Rzhavyi would have kicked in their face so badly that they’d be unrecognizable to their own mother. 

But no one had predicted it. And Rzhavyi wasn’t about to beat himself up. 

In the morning he was the first to wake. At some point in the night, Topor had disentangled himself and spread out across the whole sofa, so that Rzhavyi was left with a pitiful slice of space along the edge. He wriggled out from under the blanket and collected his clothing, which was scattered across the floor. Rzhavyi grabbed his phone from his jacket pocket. 

He apprehensively unlocked the screen. 

No missed calls. No texts either. The gangsters hadn’t followed up. Maybe they had a weekend too, possibly getting drunk, banging some chicks, resting at a country house…they were people too, after all.

He put the phone back in his pocket, drank some water in the kitchen, and sat there, looking at the posters and calendars on the walls. He went to wash his face. Topor was still sleeping and Rzhavyi didn't know how to wake him up. Why should he, anyway? Let him sleep. It was only noon, and Reyhan wasn’t due for a while. They had time. 

Turning on the light, Rzhavyi stepped into the washroom. It was identical to the one in his parent’s apartment—small and cramped. You entered and immediately bumped into everything. There was the toilet with a wooden seat, the drawer under the sink with its yellowing white paint flaking off, and the obtrusive washing machine, crammed into a room that wasn’t designed to house it. The bathroom only had one faucet, which was long and hung on a hinge, so that it could be positioned over the sink or the bathtub. What were those morons thinking when they designed such tiny bathrooms? Rzhavyi once saw some kind of Soviet handbook with plans for a typical Khrushchev-era apartment building. It calculated exactly how much space a woman needed to bend over and retrieve the laundry from the bathtub, her ass almost touching the toilet.[4] There was a picture of a man stretching as he scrubbed his back, nothing seeming to bother him.[5] Sure. In this two by three meter cell, Rzhavyi—a real person, not an illustration—could barely turn around, able to touch everything in the bathroom simultaneously. 

  


_Typical old Russian washrooms with one faucet._  


He turned on the water and began washing his face. He could probably have washed his hair too, but it would have been suspicious to meet Reyhan and Damirian still damp. It was bad enough that he had a crimson hickey on his shoulder near his neck; Rzhavyi didn't remember exactly when Topor had given it to him. At least his shirt collar wasn’t too stretched out to hide it. As long as he pulled it up, no one would notice. 

“Why didn't you wake me?” 

The noise from the tap had drowned out the sound of Topor entering the washroom. Rzhavyi lifted his head, scrubbed at his face, and met the korytnik’s eyes. Topor’s expression was sleepy and contented, hair sticking out in all directions. He smiled, scratching his head and went to stand in front of the toilet. Was he going to piss in front of Rzhavyi? Alright then, it wasn’t that shocking.

“Was I supposed to?” Rzhavyi bent over the sink.

Rzhavyi didn’t look, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Topor yawn widely, resting an outstretched hand on the tiled wall above the toilet as he took his limp cock in his hand. 

“And what, were you just gonna snoop around here all alone until I woke up?” A stream joined the sound of the water flowing from the tap. Rzhavyi, shaking his head, squeezed some toothpaste into his mouth and rinsed as loudly as he could. “That’s kinda boring.”

It was now loud enough in the bathroom that it was hard to hear even Topor’s voice. He flushed the toilet and pushed Rzhavyi back from the sink, swinging the faucet over to fill the bathtub and spilling water across the floor and Rzhavyi’s feet as he did so. Unbothered, Topor stepped into the bath and began adjusting the water temperature.

Rzhavyi turned away. Topor was standing there naked, and he still couldn't calmly look at his dick in the light of day—it was awkward. It was as if he hadn’t jerked Topor off last night, or hadn’t had Topor’s broad hand stroke his balls, or kiss him on the mouth. Rzhavyi never felt ashamed of anything, but now he was rubbing his face vigorously with a rough towel. At the back of his mind, he knew that hiding his face like this wasn’t cool. 

So he looked at Topor again, throwing the towel on the washing machine.

Topor, for some reason, was drawing a bath. So far there was only a little water in the bottom of the tub, just a couple inches at his feet. It probably wasn’t a good idea to be looking at Topor’s feet though, because if Rzhavyi glanced up to look at his face, he’d see Topor’s dick on the way. His body was big and strong, with a slightly dark complexion. 

“What, are you going to bathe like a girl?” Rzhavyi asked, so as not to just stand there and stare.

“Only girls can take baths?” Topor lowered himself to sit in the tub and looked up at Rzhavyi. “I’d never heard that rule.”

Soviet architects had obviously never expected that a gigantic moose would one day use their bathtub. Topor's shoulders barely fit, and his legs, of course, didn't fit at all. Topor bent his knees, and his legs fell apart comfortably, spreading as far as they could in the tub.

“Use some bubble bath,” Rzhavyi suggested. 

“I don’t have any.” Topor sat up straight and made some room, stirring up the clear, bluish water. “Come on, get in here.”

“What am I, a girl?” snapped Rzhavyi. “Fuck off.”

“Why are you always on about girl this, and girl that?” Topor frowned, reaching out and grabbing Rzhavyi's wrist. He stroked the back of his hand with his thumb, squeezing firmly. “Come on. If you’re not a girl, then don’t play hard to get.”

For a couple of seconds, Rzhavyi reflected on just how much had fucking changed. How instead of getting drunk with the guys in the stairwell, he was staring at a naked Topor sitting in the yellowing tub, making himself gayer by the second.

“I’ll give you a backrub,” Topor promised enthusiastically. 

As if Rzhavyi still needed to be persuaded. Looking at the floor, he pulled off his sweatpants and T-shirt—why had he even bothered to get dressed?—and climbed over the edge of the tub.

The water was hot. Topor silently watched, making himself as small as possible across from Rzhavyi. There was hardly any space, but Rzhavyi somehow managed to squeeze himself in. The faucet was poking him painfully in the back, and his toes were resting on Topor’s feet. The water rose up the sides of the tub and nearly spilled out. Crammed in there, sitting on his ass with his legs tucked in was not comfortable. 

“The fuck,” said Rzhavyi, “we look like fucking morons.”

“It’s not great,” agreed Topor. “One sec, hold on.”

He slipped his left foot out from under Rzhavyi, leaning forward, placing his legs on either side of Rzhavyi and sticking one out over the side of the bath. Now it was even worse. Rzhavyi was trapped between hairy calves and thighs with his own knees almost to his chin, in a completely stupid, demeaning position.

“Give me your leg.” Topor stuck his hand under the water and hooked it around Rzhavyi’s ankle. 

“Where should I fucking put it?” Rzhavyi irritably ran his hand over his face, which was now sweating from the hot water and steam. He didn’t know where to put his hands. “On your head, or what?” 

Nonetheless he straightened out his leg, putting it the only place he could—under Topor’s arm.

“The other one.”

Rzhavyi ground his teeth. In for a penny, in for a pound, right? Making a fuss and getting out now would be stupid and embarrassing. He lifted his leg out of the water and rested his foot on Topor’s chest. Topor pulled Rzhavyi’s leg higher, placing it on his shoulder and pressing his cheek to it.

“Turn on the hot water,” he said in a low, soft baritone. “There is still some room.”

It was good that the faucet was long, so that it could be turned against the wall. The water flowed over the tiles and down into the bath. Moving again, Rzhavyi shifted a bit and rested his right arm on Topor’s leg. It was comfortable, as if Topor’s leg had been specifically designed as an armrest, albeit a hairy one.

“Why the name Topor?” He didn’t know why he asked. He felt like he should talk about something, not just sit there awkwardly. 

“Because I’m about as good at swimming as an axe.[6] Turn off the water.” Topor stroked his leg, running his hand along Rzhavyi’s foot and down to the middle of his calf and back, pressing his fingers into Rzhavyi’s heel.

It was lovely. So nice that Rzhavyi even closed his eyes. 

“Are you serious?” Groping for the tap behind his shoulder, Rzhavyi turned off the water. The bathroom was now so quiet that he could hear Topor’s deep and regular breaths.

“No.” Topor didn’t seem to want to talk.

Well, screw him. Rzhavyi's shoulders were chilly. He tried to sink deeper under the water with mixed success. The warm water was relaxing, and he had almost dozed off, when he felt warm lips press against his ankle.

Surprised, Rzhavyi opened his eyes. He hadn’t guessed wrong—Topor had kissed his foot.

“What are you doing?” Rzhavyi asked. 

Topor’s gaze was dark and wild. He tightened his grip on Rzhavyi’s ankle, even though Rzhavyi had no plans to escape. Topor kissed him again, this time on the arch of his foot.

“Can’t you guess?” 

Rzhavyi blinked. It was obvious, why wouldn’t it be? He silently stared at his leg. It was nothing special, with a knobbly knee and a fading bruise. Rzhavyi didn’t think it was worth kissing, but Topor seemed to like it. Rzhavyi even checked Topor’s face just to be sure—he looked pleased, with a blush spreading over his high cheekbones.

Rzhavyi couldn’t tear his eyes away, staring at Topor’s curly hair—which the humidity had made even curlier—and how it stuck to his forehead. Topor rinsed his face, scooping up water and running his hand over his mouth. For some reason, his lips seemed indecently red to Rzhavyi. 

“Don't stare,” said Topor. “I’m not the TV, you aren’t going to see Putin broadcast across my face.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” If Rzhavyi had previously planned to avert his gaze, he sure as hell wasn’t going to now. “I’ll stare at you all I want.”

“Fuckin’ punk.” Topor said it without any malice. It wasn’t a warning or a threat, he just said it as if it was a fact. Rzhavyi didn’t respond. He didn’t want to start shit. He would loath to admit it, but he was really enjoying just sitting there in the tiny bathtub.

Rzhavyi closed his eyes again and Topor continued to kiss his leg. He rubbed his cheek against his ankle, caressing it. Rzhavyi didn't open his eyes when he heard a quiet splashing sound. Topor touched the inside of his thigh, sighing heavily, before biting the skin of his ankle.

The sound was really quite specific. 

Topor was jerking himself off, pressing his forehead to Rzhavyi's leg. Rzhavyi was afraid to open his eyes. It scared the shit out of him, but he didn’t know why. Was it the fact that watching Topor get off would be some sort of new faggot low? Or was it the idea of missing out, of not seeing anything at all? That it would all be a dream, and he would wake up in his room with his softening boner sticking to wet sheets.

“Fuck,” Topor breathed shallowly against his leg, and then he moved. Even with his eyes closed, Rzhavyi knew that Topor was staring at him now. “Red, you are so fucking…beautiful.”

On the last word, Topor moaned. His hips twitched, and his leg muscles under Rzhavyi’s hand convulsed. Rzhavyi realized that he had been gripping Topor’s thigh the whole time.

He forced himself to look. 

“Come on.” Topor was a bit too close. He was hovering over Rzhavyi, his dark eyes boring into his face. He roughly pulled Rzhavyi toward him, running his fingers over Rzhavyi’s cheekbones. “C’mere.”

“Fucking come here yourself.”

Rzhavyi pushed Topor hard in the chest, pressing him back against the sloping wall of the tub. He squeezed his knees on either side of Topor’s thighs, splashing water out onto the floor. Rzhavyi shoved his dick into Topor’s hand. It was so hard it hurt. He saw spots, either due to the airless bathroom, or because he’d sat up too quickly. Or maybe it was because Topor was clutching Rzhavyi’s hair with his free hand, shoving his tongue in Rzhavyi’s mouth and biting at his lips. He was clutching Rzhavyi to himself, as if afraid he might disappear. 

He came in Topor’s hand with eyes closed. Colorful spots danced behind his eyelids, and he could only think one thing: Topor had called him beautiful, the moron. He’d probably spent too much time inhaling car exhaust.

“Why are you grinning?” Topor touched his mouth. He slowly traced the edges of Rzhavyi’s lips, pressing with his fingertips. Rzhavyi turned his head away. He couldn't stand when Topor looked at him like that, tilting his head and narrowing his non-Russian eyes. 

“Do I need to ask your permission?”

“If you did, I’d allow it.” Topor ran both hands through his wet hair, smoothing it back so that he looked like some kind of mobster from an American film.

“Watch your mouth.” Rzhavyi awkwardly rose to his feet, climbing out of the cooling bath and stepping onto the cold tile floor. “Do you have something to eat?”

Topor got out behind him. He took up all the free space in the bathroom, pressing Rzhavyi against the laundry machine as he reached up behind him for something.

“Here, dry off.” He thrust a towel into Rzhavyi's hands, chuckling. “I’ve got nothing, but Pashka promised to bring pizza and beer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Art for original fic:_   
>  [Scene in the pub by convallarias](https://convallarias-art.tumblr.com/post/171993805719/youve-probably-heard-about-this-strange-east)   
>  [Kylo and Hux in the bathtub by rollynn](https://mysticmilks.tumblr.com/post/186501016803/rollynn-sequel-to-this)
> 
> _Click number to return to text_  
> [1] Russian kindergartners don't bring their own lunches, the kindergarten feeds them. The fact that Rzhavyi found this food tasty indicates that the quality of food he ate at home was poor.
> 
> [2] The implication here is that the inspector would want bribes.
> 
> [3] [A type of berry that can be made into a tea](https://s3.envato.com/files/255322146/DSC_7136%20__________.jpg). Pretty tasty with honey.
> 
> [4] The [illustration.](https://varlamov.me/2019/doma4/04.jpg)
> 
> [5] The picture depicted a man scrubbing his back with one of [these.](https://static.daru-dar.org/s1024/01/02/ae/01/ae01369fdbdb35377cf5354961882a1158ca8beb.jpg)
> 
> [6] Russian idiom: To swim like an axe (Topor's name translates as Axe)


	13. Mom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a day late gang. Next Wednesday's update will hopefully be on time! In the meantime, enjoy!

Reyhan jumped on Topor the minute she crossed the threshold. Rzhavyi heard her scream happily from the living room, and barely managed to tuck his T-shirt back into his sweatpants. He and Topor had been rolling around on the sofa for the last fifteen minutes, and it was a fucking mess. The blanket was rumpled, the sheets had come off, and the pillows—like partisan prisoners of war—were huddled together against the wall. After the bath, Rzhavyi thought that he reeked of sex from a mile away. Topor reeked from two miles off, and somehow dared to go meet his sister and Damarian at the door dressed in only his sweatpants.

Maybe Topor was always this much of a slob at home? Regardless, there was no time to tidy up the sofa. After smoothing down his disheveled hair, Rzhavyi slunk into the kitchen, sitting down on a stool and pulling a mug of tea toward himself.

“Hi,” Reyhan smiled. She had a messy bun perched atop her head. She was wearing a grey T-shirt and jeans with ripped knees. She slipped along the wall toward Rzhavyi from the hallway. “How’s it going? You're drinking tea, right?”

“Yeah,” Rzhavyi smiled carefully at her and took a sip. “I’m fine.”

“That’s good!” Reyhan nodded, glancing in his direction before turning away and poking around for a teabag and sugar. “Do you need a refill?”

Rzhavyi peered into his mug. There was a bit of tea left. He wasn’t used to being cared for, even less so, by a girl he barely knew. It seemed that both Topor and his sister were genetically disposed to feed and provide refreshments for their guests.

“Sure,” he replied, pushing the mug across the table towards Reyhan. “Thanks.”

Reyhan smiled and put a teabag in his cup. She seemed to want to say something, but at that moment, Damirian came into the kitchen carrying a box of beer. Topor followed with the pizza. He was at least now wearing a shirt, thank god. The tiny kitchen became instantly crowded. Reyhan sat on the narrow window sill so as to be out of the way. Rzhavyi tucked his legs under the table. 

“Oh, hey,” Damirian deposited the box of beer on the table and extended his hand. He squinted his eyes, as if inspecting Rzhavyi. “Good to see you. How’s it going?”

“Alright.” Rzhavyi shook his hand and tugged the collar of his shirt up over where he knew he had a hickey. “How are you?”

“I’m opening a new kiosk.” Damirian popped the top off some kind of imported beer and took a noisy sip. In a Southern accent[1] that Rzhavyi had never heard him use before, he said, “Come ‘n visit, I’ll give ya a discount, seein’ as you’re a friend of dear Renat.”

Reyhan giggled from her corner, drawing her legs up to rest on the radiator. Damirian winked at her and held out a beer. Topor glared disapprovingly.

“One, and that’s it,” Topor said. “Make it last, Reyhan.”

“It’s so tasty!” Reyhan whined, pouting at Topor. “It’ll wear off by this evening! You said so yourself!”

“It’s not the same.” Topor opened the box of pizza, tearing off a large slice and shoving it towards Reyhan, frowning. “You weigh about as much as a goat. Half a bottle and you’ll be on the floor.”

“I’m nothing like a goat.” Reyhan stubbornly chewed on the pizza, as if it was going to immediately add a couple of pounds. She spoke with her mouth full, “I'm gonna drink anyway.”

“You little wino,” Topor’s voice sounded gentle, and he no longer looked so grumpy. “I won't cover for you in front of dad then—you can sort it out.”

“Our thanks to the health and safety inspector.” Pulling a stool out from under the table, Damirian straddled it and pressed his back to the refrigerator. “Reyhan, listen up when he goes to the toilet, Rzhavyi and I will look away. You grab a beer and hide it.”

“Oi, Damirian, do you want me to rearrange your face?” Topor bopped him on the shoulder. He seemed to hit lightly by his own standards, but Damirian only just managed to remain on the stool, grabbing onto the table.

“Easy there,” Damirian laughed and punched Topor back, his fist hitting Topor’s side. “What’s the worst that could happen if Reyhan drank two beers? How much did you drink when you were sixteen? What about you, Rzhavyi?”

Topor rubbed at his side, his mouth full of food. Topor didn't respond to Damirian, instead staring at Rzhavyi. Reyhan also stared from the window sill. What a terrific family.

“I don’t remember how much I drank.” Rzhavyi grabbed a slice of pizza with sausage on it and looked at Damirian. Damarian looked arrogant, with this oblique smile and curly hair. Reyhan kept glancing at him as he bickered with Topor. “All I remember is that your kiosk doesn’t sell booze to anyone under the age of eighteen.”[2]

“Ah, fuck,” Damirian put his face in his hands and groaned. “We’ve got a second health and safety inspector on our hands. That's it, I give up. Reyhan, I did everything I could, but they’ll beat me up if I don’t shut it.”

“See, Pash?[3] You’re a smart guy after all.” Topor stepped away from the sink he’d been leaning his weight against, coming to sit on the empty stool next to Rzhavyi. “I appreciate that about you.” 

Topor smiled. Pleased, Reyhan reached for the pizza. Rzhavyi finished his piece, looking at the boxes. They were stacked haphazardly across the table, a ragged mountain. Somewhere in their depths had to be at least one with chicken and mushrooms. He had almost managed to grab himself a slice, when Damirian, taking a sip of beer, loudly asked, “So, where’s Kate? Is she coming later?”

Cheese stretched between the two slices Rzhavyi was attempting to separate. He separated the cheese with his finger, licking his hand automatically. He remembered Kate as tall, masculine-looking, and wearing shiny boots. The girl who Topor himself had said he was “just fucking.” 

“Nope, she’s not coming,” answered Topor. “We sorta broke up.”

“Oh!”

Reyhan looked at her brother with genuine horror in her eyes. A slice of tomato fell onto her bare knee, which was sticking out of her ripped jeans. She didn’t even notice. 

“What's wrong?” Topor asked her. 

“You didn't tell me.” Reyhan fidgeted on the window sill, frowning exaggeratedly. She finally noticed the piece of tomato on her leg and picked it up. “I didn't know! She promised to give me a dress—a beautiful one that I can go clubbing in. It’s shiny, with sequins. It turned out to be small on her, and it would fit me, even if it’s a bit long—” She shook her head, the exact same way Topor usually did, and blushed. She probably realized that she’d gone off on a girly tangent. “I thought about it today and asked her to drop it off here when we were visiting.”

“Reyhan, get to the point,” said Topor evenly. 

“Well…she said that she’d drop by.” Reyhan was looking at her brother as if she had royally fucked up and only now was realizing it. “So, I think she’s coming. And you’re totally broken up, right? Like, you had a fight? What should I do? I can text her and ask her to meet—maybe meet later?”

“It’s fine,” Topor gestured with his right hand as if it was no big deal, but Rzhavyi saw that under the table, he clenched his left fingers in the fabric of his sweatpants, fidgeting. “Forget it. We didn't fight, it just happened.”

“Your relationship didn't seem that serious in the first place.” Damirian shrugged his shoulders and grabbed another bottle of beer, opening it on the edge of the table. “Don’t sweat it, bro. Kate won't make a scene, she’s a smart girl. Wasn’t she the one who fucking decked you when you left her? And then you had that bruise, and I had no idea where you’d gotten it. She is so fucking awesome.”

Damirian had a mischievous expression on his face. Reyhan smiled awkwardly, looking somewhat dejected. Rzhavyi watched Topor silently rumple his sweatpants. 

“But I don’t like girls like that,” Damirian corrected. “I don’t like blondes at all. Bro, sorry, but she is huge. Girls should look like princesses.”

Topor had stopped twisting up his pant leg. Rzhavyi didn’t know where else to look. It would have been incriminating if he looked at Topor, so he glanced at Reyhan instead. She had noticeably perked up when hearing Damarian’s comment about princesses, straightening her messy bun. 

“Katya isn’t big, she’s just tall,” she said. “Did she really hit you, Renat? She must have been upset.”

“It wasn't her.” Topor put his bottle on the table and rose to his feet. “I forgot my mobile phone in the car, I'll be back in a sec.”

He fled the kitchen so abruptly that Damirian turned around in surprise to watch him leave. The front door slammed behind Topor.

“It's nothing. He’ll walk it off,” mused Damarian.

“Maybe I should write to Katya after all?” asked Reyhan. 

Damirian shrugged. Reyhan stared at Rzhavyi as if he had all of the answers about the breakup. If Topor hadn’t told her or Damirian about Kate, it meant he hadn’t told them about the rest of the situation. More broadly. Was it something you were open about? With your friends? With your sister?

“Your brother said not to, so don't text her.” Rzhavyi stood up, and after a moment’s thought, grabbed his beer to take with him. “I’m going out for a smoke.”

Topor, naturally, hadn’t gone to the car. Rzhavyi found him on the third floor. He stood facing the window, smoking a cigarette. 

“I was direct with her. I told her it was over and that we wouldn’t be getting back together,” he said heavily. Rzhavyi sat down on the windowsill, holding his beer between his legs. “After you showed up here that night. Is that what you wanted to ask?” 

“I didn't want to ask anything.” Rzhavyi twisted the beer bottle in his hands, looking at Topor. “Why are you upsetting your sister? She feels bad that she invited your Kate.”

“She’s not mine,” Topor corrected, stubborn. “And why do you care? I’ll deal with it myself.”

“Oh, is this ‘dealing with it’?” asked Rzhavyi. “You fled into the stairwell. How long are you gonna hang out here? Until it resolves itself?”

“Why did you even follow me?”

Turning to face Rzhavyi, Topor put out his cigarette in a coffee can. He looked frustrated, his eyebrows drawn together and his mouth a hard line. He looked like he was about to throw down.

“No reason,” Rzhavyi kept his smile on his face and took a sip of beer. “I missed you, maybe.”

Topor blinked. He looked suspiciously at Rzhavyi before stepping closer, resting his thigh against Rzhavyi's knee. He looked over his shoulder, and quickly kissed him. The landing wasn’t visible from the peepholes of the doors on the floors above and below, Rzhavyi would have heard if someone turned a key in a lock. Knowing this, he didn't let Topor draw back. Rzhavyi ran his hands through his shaggy curls and determinedly stuck his tongue between Topor’s teeth. 

Topor smelled of cigarettes and beer. Somewhere downstairs the entrance door slammed. Topor’s mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. 

Letting him go, Rzhavyi jumped off the windowsill. Someone was climbing the stairs, heels clicking loudly and clearly. Topor pulled out his phone and looked at the screen, rejecting the call before shoving it back in his pocket. After a second, it rang again. Rzhavyi thought it might be Kate calling, but Topor looked at his vibrating cell with a strange expression on his face. He then knew for a fact that Kate wasn’t calling anyone at the moment, because she was climbing the stairs in front of him. She stopped at the landing and smiled at them both. 

“Well, hello boys.”

This time, almost every part of Kate was sparkling. Her silvery boots ended in black leggings, which looked a lot like the latex suits in porn. Her short leather jacket gleamed like the matte side of aluminum foil. Kate kissed Topor on the cheek, patting him on the shoulder. Holding Rzhavyi tightly, she also gave him a kiss, which he wasn’t expecting.

“Are the baby and little bastard here already?” she asked, bumming a cigarette off of Topor. 

“Yeah.” Topor wiped his cheek, only managing to smear the glitter around. “What did you bring Reyhan? Can I let her out of the house dressed in it?”

“As if you’d have any say in that.” Kate flashed her white smile, before taking a draw from her cigarette, her cheeks sucking in. “It’s fine. Her boobs won’t fall out, her ass won’t be bare.”

“Got it,” said Topor. “So, going out in it will be forbidden.”[4]

Kate rolled her eyes, leaning against the wall. Her long nails were painted silver, and she lifted a lit cigarette to her glittery mouth, taking a drag. She lazily waved her hand toward Rzhavyi, blowing out smoke. “You don’t see how unfair it is? You let yours go outside looking all pretty, wearing sweatpants. That’s allowed, but your beloved sister can’t wear what she wants?” 

Rzhavyi turned to look at Topor. Kate didn’t say it outright, but it was obvious: she knew. It was goddamn clear how she’d found out. Why had Topor told her?

“What are you hinting at, Katya?” Topor asked dryly.

“I’m sitting right here, you know.” Rzhavyi stared at Kate, but she didn't look away. “What the fuck do you mean by ‘yours’? Did you forget my name?”

“Good lord,” Kate sighed, raising her pale eyebrows in mock suffering. “I genuinely don’t know what your name is. ‘Rzhavyi,’ is that even a real name? And Renat, I wasn’t hinting at anything. You haven’t got a sign taped to your forehead, but you were always attracted to things you shouldn't be. Although I know I have a great ass, no one has ever been quite so enthusiastic about it as you have. I guessed correctly, right? You two—” she pointed a shiny nail at Topor, and then aimed it, like an arrow, at Rzhavyi, “—are you, like, dating?”

Rzhavyi didn't know how to respond. Topor was also quiet. Kate squeezed between them and threw her cigarette butt into the makeshift ashtray. Taking a step back, she folded her arms over her chest, looking very satisfied, as if she’d won a fucking drift race. 

“Yeah, we are ‘like, dating.’” Rzhavyi said, not giving himself time to think about it. “Any questions?” 

He stared at Kate, but could almost actually feel Topor’s gaze on him. The front door slammed again. A dog yapped downstairs and then immediately shut up.

“No, no questions,” Kate smiled and tucked a strand of her short bleached hair behind her ear. “Maybe we should go upstairs already? You left Damirian and Reyhan alone, didn't you? Are we going to give him a slap on the wrist, or forgive him? ” 

“Shit,” Topor said, coming back to his senses. “I'm gonna rip his fucking hands off.” 

Kate allowed Topor to charge past her up the stairs. He climbed the flight in four leaps, skipping steps and disappearing up to the next floor. 

“So, what's your name?” Kate asked, turning to Rzhavyi over her shoulder as they climbed to the fifth floor. “Well, I mean, other than your nickname or whatever.”

Her flat, boyish ass, moved before his eyes, covered by shiny leggings. Rzhavyi didn’t want to think about what Kate had said about Topor being attracted to “things he shouldn’t be.” He didn’t want to picture how he’d fucked Kate, or what he was supposed to do with all of this information that he hadn’t asked for. 

“Arseny,” he said, as they arrived at Topor’s apartment on the fifth floor. “And you said you weren’t going to ask any more questions.” 

“Mhm.” Kate bent down in the hallway, pulling off her tight boots. She looked at him closely. She was tall, taller than Rzhavyi, even without her heels. “You are quite severe, aren’t you Arseny? Even though your sweatpants say otherwise.”

Kate may have been a smart girl, but it didn’t mean he should trust her with more information than he needed to. Silently kicking off his sneakers, Rzhavyi walked into the kitchen. It was quiet and both of Damirian’s hands were still attached. Topor moved to make room for Rzhavyi at the table and Kate dragged Reyhan to the toilet to try on her new dress. Damirian, finishing another beer, blathered on about something to do with cars and races.

Rzhavyi listened half-heartedly, not really paying attention. He nodded and asked the occasional question so that he wouldn’t lose the plot entirely. The beer, food, and warmth made him drowsy. Topor’s phone rang a couple more times, but Topor didn’t even look to see who was calling. He didn’t even pick it up off the table, turning the sound off entirely. It started to make Rzhavyi vaguely anxious. Who would be pestering Topor? Maybe it was the bank offering him a loan or some kind of crap. 

Kate left first. She kissed everyone on the cheek, promised Reyhan that they would go shopping together at some clothing stalls at the market, and then vanished. A couple of minutes later, the insane revving of her engine—muffler removed—rang out in the courtyard. Reyhan had turned pink from all of the beer, and Damirian swore to Topor for the third time—on the honor and blood of all his relatives—that he wouldn't touch her on the drive home, and that he would deliver her directly to her door. By the fourth time, Topor finally agreed begrudgingly. 

“Call me when you get home,” Topor said to his sister, when Damirian went to the bathroom. 

Reyhan started nodding, clutching the bag with her new dress. An unfamiliar ringtone sounded, and she pulled out a pink phone with some fluffy charms dangling off it. She flipped it open and cringed, looking first at the phone and then at Topor.

“What is it?” he asked. 

Reyhan silently slid the phone towards him across the table.

Two words appeared on the small color screen: "Elena Anatolyevna."[5] Topor pushed the phone away from him.

“Renat.” Reyhan looked at her brother, a desperate expression on her face.

Rzhavyi gazed at her for a moment. Reyhan frowned and looked away. Elena Anatolievna continued to call. Damirian returned from the bathroom, stepped into the kitchen and also stared at the pink phone vibrating on the table. 

“Is it a competition between you two, or what?” he asked. “The first to give up loses?”

It definitely wasn’t a game. Or, at least, Rzhavyi didn't know the rules. The atmosphere in the cramped kitchen was so tense that he wanted to escape as soon as possible. Even Damirian had stopped smiling, continuing to look puzzled, glancing at the phone, then Topor, then Reyhan, and finally at Rzhavyi. 

“Renat, please answer it,” Reyhan’s voice faltered, before suddenly becoming unexpectedly harsh, no longer girlish. “She's worried. Did your damn tongue fall off? Or your hands? Do I have to answer and tell her that you are sitting here and can't hold the phone for yourself?”

She reached for her cell, moving her body with determination, but Topor beat her to it. He flipped the phone shut. Reyhan clenched her fingers into a fist above the phone, lowering her hand and sighing loudly. 

“I won't talk to her,” said Topor. 

“I see,” said Reyhan. 

She shoved her cellphone back into her pocket, and after saying goodbye to Rzhavyi, went into the hallway. Damirian shook Rzhavyi’s hand, and patted Topor on the shoulder, but did not ask any questions. He either had decided to stay out of it, or knew the story.

Topor didn’t lock the door behind them. He silently lit a cigarette, throwing the window open. Rzhavyi had never seen him like that before—not furious, or angry, or gloomy. Instead he was detached and calm. Rzhavyi didn't know anything about Topor’s family, except that he and Reyhan had a father. Topor had never mentioned his mother, but Reyhan looked nothing like her brother. Only their eyes were alike, and their dark hair. Rzhavyi wasn’t one to assume things, but he could guess what might have happened.

The silence was shitty. Topor had already smoked half of his cigarette.

“Who was that?” Rzhavyi asked. “Your mother?”

Topor silently nodded.

“Why are you ignoring her?”

“If I ignore her, it means I have a good reason.” Topor glanced at him, scowling. “You told me to stay out of your business, so don't poke your nose in mine.”

“That’s different,” Rzhavyi snapped. “And don’t make this about me.”

“Did I not make myself clear? Want me to tell you again?”

Throwing his cigarette butt out onto the street, Topor slammed the window shut, making the glass quiver in its frame.

“I'm not a fucking idiot.” Rzhavyi stood up, placing his fist on the table, blocking Topor’s exit from the kitchen. “I heard you the first time. I asked you a specific question, is it impossible for you to answer like a normal person?”

Topor clenched his jaw. Rzhavyi saw a muscle in his cheek flex. He didn't care about any of the shit with Topor’s mother. He was annoyed that Topor was evading the question and implying that he was dumb. Rzhavyi wouldn't tolerate it. 

“Okay.” Topor spoke quietly, but clearly, maintaining his angry glare at Rzhavyi. “You want to know? Sure, I’ll tell you. She dumped me with my grandparents when she and my father split up. Then she ran off to Moscow to build her fucking career. I saw her once a month for six years. Two days a month. But sure, I got used to it. Two months with my grandfather, two months with my uncle, two months with my father, rinse and repeat. Then I would go to that fucking summer camp. It was fine. But then she came back and took me to fucking Moscow—it’s such a fucking shitty city, there’s no way to raise a normal child there—only she still didn’t have any time for me. Do you know how many after-school activities I went to?”[6]

Rzhavyi silently shook his head. 

“I went to fucking fencing,” Topor began counting on his fingers, thrusting them at Rzhavyi as he tallied under his breath, “to volleyball, to a fucking shitty drawing class, to gymnastics, to music school,[7] to the pool, and finally, I was a member of the equestrian club. I used to wish the place would fucking burn down, horses and all. I worked my ass off for her, and she would only spend time with me for an hour on the weekend. Fuck that. Societal problems always took precedence. She wanted to find a way to exempt me from army service, so she forced me to fucking study journalism.[8] I couldn’t do what she wanted anymore. I flunked out, did my service, and then came here.”

“You went to university in Moscow?” With his foot, Rzhavyi located the stool behind him and sat down. He tried to visualize this mysterious equestrian club a journalism department. “Your mother wanted to get you out of army service, but you still went? And then you came here? Here? To this shithole? To taxi stolen cars back and forth? You're fucking bullshitting me.”

He shut up, looking Topor in the eye. Rzhavyi simply couldn't believe that anybody in their right mind would leave a heaven complete with swimming pools, a university, and an army exemption. Topor was lying. He’d probably fought with his mom about some other bullshit and was now ignoring her. She must have called Reyhan to ask to talk to her stupid son. 

“I’m not bullshitting you. Hold on.”

Topor stood up and went into the living room. While he was rusting around, Rzhavyi tried to imagine—just for a moment—what his childhood would have been like if he rode horses and swam in a pool instead of breaking bottles against walls with other boys from the courtyard. If he had learned to play the guitar. If his mother had wanted him to grow up to be a normal person. If his father hadn’t blamed him for turning out shitty.

“Here,” Topor shoved a battered passport into Rzhavyi’s hands and sat back down. “Look.”

Rzhavyi opened it. The black and white photo of Topor was funny. He was lop-eared, short-haired, and had a mustache and a beard in progress. He had a really fucking weird patronymic—Amirhanovich. The passport was issued in Moscow, from an administrative office near the center of the city. Rzhavyi reread the page and flipped through the others. His registration stamp indeed listed an address in Moscow.[9] The street address was unfamiliar.

“So you’re a dirty Muscovite?” That was all Rzhavyi managed to force out. 

“I was actually born here.” Topor opened the last bottle of beer. He took a sip and wiped his mouth with his fist. “So, no, I am not a Muscovite. I hate Moscow.”

“I’d guess it’s just a normal city.” Rzhavyi took the bottle of beer from Topor and took a sip, tossing the passport onto the table. “So, now you can do whatever you want. You still don't talk to your mother?”

“I’m fed up with her.” Topor grabbed the passport, fiddled with it and turned to look out the window. “She wants me to come back. Says that she misses me.”

“And you think she doesn't miss you?”

“Why would she? If she did, she'd have stayed home with me, like your mom. She wouldn’t have fucking nagged my dad about the shit he got up to. Maybe then they wouldn't have gotten divorced.” He paused, sipping his beer and clenching his passport in his fist, frowning. “But if they hadn’t, then Reyhan wouldn't exist. Crazy shit.”

Rzhavyi didn't answer immediately. He watched Topor sulk, upset that his mother gave a shit about his life. It was incomprehensible. 

“My mother didn’t stay home for me.” He’d never said it out loud to anyone else before. The words didn’t come easily. “She just never worked, that's all. She didn't want to have children. Or, at least, she definitely didn't want me.”

“How do you know?”

Topor handed him the beer. Rzhavyi took a sip before answering, quietly. “She said so herself. My father says I should have been born a girl.”

“Well, you don't look like a girl,” said Topor. 

Rzhavyi shrugged. They silently drank the beer, passing it back and forth. The light began to fade outside the window. One by one, the lights flickered on in the apartments of the prefab building across the way. 

“Want to watch something?” Topor reached out his hand, touching Rzhavyi’s shoulder and briefly stroking his neck. “Go for a walk? Or just lie down?”

“Why did you move here?” Rzhavyi asked him. “You had everything there. Your mother loves you and misses you. You won't even answer her calls. Why do you tuck your tail and run from her?”

Topor's hand on his shoulder briefly clenched. Only, Rzhavyi didn't want to fight. He didn't even shrug off his hand or jump up from the stool. He just looked into Topor’s dark eyes and waited for him to respond. 

“If anyone but you asked me that, I would fucking smash their face against the sink,” Topor’s voice sounded even, but Rzhavyi suspected he was restraining himself, trying not to go berserk. “What do you want me to do? Call my mother?”

“You turned off your phone,” said Rzhavyi. “Reyhan has probably already arrived home.”

“Oh, fuck.”

Topor pulled out his cell, pressing buttons. Rzhavyi got up and grabbed his sweater from the living room, before going into the hall and pulling on his sneakers. He needed to go home and change—his underwear at the very minimum—and also Topor’s grudge against his mother was making Rzhavyi’s brain hurt.

“Are you leaving?”

Topor stopped him at the door. It was dark in the hallway, just like the last time. Topor stroked Rzhavyi's wrist with his thumb—carefully, as if they’d never touched before. 

“Can I at least kiss you, Senya?”

Rzhavyi smiled. “What, are you all polite now?” He sniffed and moved closer to Topor. “You can fucking kiss me.”

Topor laughed against his lips. And he continued giggling as they kissed, huddled in the corner, next to the dustpan and the now-crooked shelves. He really didn’t want to go get clean underwear, but it was right next door.

He pulled out his phone as he stepped onto the street. He felt his heart sink. He had missed calls. He’d put it on silent in the cinema and forgotten to turn the sound back on. The calls were from different numbers, but he realized, of course, that they’d all be from the same person.

The black Mercedes Gelik—the one Topor had delivered to Tolyatti—was waiting at the entrance to Rzhavyi’s building. He could have escaped if he had noticed the car earlier, but now it was too late. 

“Well, hello, Senya.” Blednii pushed off from where he’d been leaning against the Gelik and smiled unpleasantly. “You weren’t answering our calls, and you didn’t spend the night at mommy and daddy’s. Were you hiding somewhere?”

Rzhavyi swallowed. His spit had become thick in his mouth. His insides were shaking, which Blednii wouldn’t be able to see, but nonetheless, wasn’t reassuring. He’d set himself up by not turning up his ringer volume. And set Topor up too, apparently. 

Blednii looked at him, squinting and waiting for an answer. He was clearly in no hurry. Rzhavyi’s senses returned.

“I was busy,” he said. He pulled the folded cash out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Sergey. “Here, take this back. I’ve made my decision.”

Blednii slowly looked from his face to the cash. 

“That isn’t at all helpful,” he said gently, grinning. “It’s been decided for you, Senya.”

Rzhavyi heard a door behind him slam. Not the one of the ones that were close by. The one three doors down. Rzhavyi didn’t have to look to know what he would see. He turned around, hoping that he was mistaken, hoping that anyone from one of the twenty apartments had walked out into the courtyard, but that wasn’t the case. Of course it was Topor. Rzhavyi, clenching his fists frantically, thought that it would have been better if Renat Solayev had stayed in Moscow, with his unbearable mom, swimming pools, and fencing.

And never got mixed up in all this shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Click on the numbers to return to your spot in the text_
> 
> [1] Southern here means the south of Russia.
> 
> [2] Russian drinking age is eighteen, but this wasn't strictly enforced until 2008.
> 
> [3] Short form of [Pavel,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pavel) Damirian's first name.
> 
> [4] Rey is sixteen, past the age when her step-brother should have a say in her business (especially a step-brother she hasn't known that long). The way Topor treats her might just be his own family dynamic, or it may be cultural. Post-Soviet Russia is pretty patriarchal overall. Topor is also a Tartar, which is an ethnic Muslim group in Russia. The author may be evoking the stereotype that Tartars have stricter "rules" for women. Or, frankly, Topor could just be a jerk when it comes to Reyhan's autonomy.
> 
> [5] The short form of Elena is Lena, aka Leia. Her patronymic, Anatolyevna, makes her the daughter of Anatoliy, aka Anakin.
> 
> [6] In Soviet times, extracurricular activities and clubs were run out of schools or community centers, in order to keep kids occupied while their parents worked. They could be anything, from hiking to singing. The clubs were free of charge at the time, and continued to be during the 90s and 2000s.
> 
> [7] Music schools were separate from day schools. Lessons were held two or three times a week, and included singing, history, and musical theory.
> 
> [8] Russian military service is technically mandatory for men. It is possible to get out of it with a medical note (either for legitimate reasons, or you can bribe a doctor). You can also escape conscription if you are a student at a school that requires "military training" as part of coursework.
> 
> [9] The term Rzhavyi uses to describe Moscow is “not rubber,” as in, “not made of rubber.” The phrase “Moscow isn’t made of rubber” refers to the resentment that native Muscovites feel towards visitors and those who move there, the sentiment being that the city doesn’t have infinite capacity. Unlike rubber, it could burst at the seams.


	14. Renat

Topor didn't beat around the bush. Rzhavyi didn't have the time to say anything to him—Topor walked up and stood a step ahead of him. Not wasting any time, he spoke directly to Blednii. 

“What do you want from him?” 

Blednii tiled his chin in Topor’s direction. With the exception of a nervous tic—the twitching vein in his face never seemed to stop—Blednii appeared calm, but Rzhavyi didn’t like the way he was looking at Topor. 

“Who gave you the right to speak?” Sergey asked slowly. 

“I don't fucking need permission.” Topor stepped forward. Rzhavyi barely restrained himself from grabbing Topor’s arm and pulling him back. “He’s not going to work for you, got it?” 

Blednii ignored Topor as if he wasn’t there. 

“You can’t solve anything for yourself, can you?” He turned his head toward Rzhavyi, with a snide expression and mocking grin. “You let others speak for you? Pathetic.”

“I already told you,” Rzhavyi replied. “We’re done here. That’s it. Find someone else.”

He turned around to leave, but Blednii grabbed his upper arm. Rzhavyi could feel him squeezing tightly through his thick jacket sleeve. Rzhavyi yanked his shoulder in Blednii’s grasp. He stared into Sergey's eyes.

“Did I not make myself clear?” Rzhavyi asked. “Hands off.”

“You’re hard of hearing then? Should I repeat what he said?” Topor's voice was calm, low, and leisurely. Rzhavyi recognized the tone; Topor had sounded the same right before he tore the side mirror off of that car. Before he’d ripped the shelves off his wall and pounded on the closet in his hallway. But the driver had been a coward, and the furniture couldn’t fight back.

Blednii could. 

There was a driver sitting in the car. Rzhavyi couldn’t see the back seat through the tinted windows, but there could have been someone else in there as well. Even if there wasn't, Rzhavyi remembered the gun that Sergey had threatened him with before. He probably wouldn’t fire it in the middle of the courtyard, but if Topor went berserk, who the fuck knows what he would do.

“Alright, kids,” Sergey's hand clenched around Rzhavyi's arm almost to the point of pain. “One of you is getting in the car, and the second is going to go on his way. Can you guess who is who? Or do you need help?”

“You're gonna go back to wherever the fuck you came from.” Topor shoved him in the chest—not with his fist, but with his open hand—causing Blednii, who wasn’t expecting it, to stumble backwards onto the Gelik.

A door swung open on the other side of the car. Rzhavyi leapt to the side, colliding with Topor. He spotted Topor’s furious expression and just managed to breathe out a warning. “Get out of here!”

But Topor didn’t seem to hear anything anymore. He shoved Blednii into the car again. The driver appeared, walking around the side of the car. He was bald and huge, his shoulders were maybe even wider than Topor’s. Rzhavyi landed a punch on his shiny face before he could reach Topor, but the driver's returning blow was so precise and strong that Rzhavyi bent in half, coughing.

“Fucking pups,” a voice rumbled over Rzhavyi’s ear.

Rzhavyi hit blindly, punching with all his strength and immediately finding himself lying in the snow. He’d been knocked off his feet, and his mouth tasted salty with blood. Unfortunately, the courtyard was completely deserted. If only someone would lean out of their window to investigate the noise, or come home late in a car. As he stood, Rzhavyi barely had time to register that Topor seemed to be faring better than he was. Rzhavyi’s face was covered with blood, and he’d become uncomfortably familiar with the side of the  _ Geländewagen _ . Rzhavyi swung again, but the driver grabbed his hand and twisted it so hard that Rzhavyi saw white sparks flash before his eyes. The driver slammed his face into the hood of the car. In this position he couldn’t manage to kick out properly. The driver held him tightly.

Then, suddenly, the driver let go. He stepped back and spit, “Blednii, shit, what the fuck?”

Rzhavyi pushed himself off the shiny side of the car. His stomach ached so badly that he could barely breathe. Topor was standing in front of the car. He slowly looked down to the bloody handle of the knife that Blednii had clutched in his fist.

If Rzhavyi had ever experienced terror before, it had never come close to what he was feeling now. Blednii slipped the butterfly knife back into his pocket and exchanged a glance with his driver. In the blink of an eye, they both shoved Topor down onto the ground. Topor bent in half on the pavement, his hand pressed to his belly. Rzhavyi rushed toward him. He did it without thinking, and would have done the same even if there were twenty gangsters crowded around them.

A crowd wouldn’t have mattered though, because just one gangster was enough to stop Rzhavyi. When he was only a few steps from Topor, the driver grabbed Rzhavyii and pulled him back against his chest. He put Rzhavyi in a headlock, squeezing his arm against Rzhavyi’s throat, pressing hard. Rzhavyi couldn’t swallow. Topor tried to stand, but Blednii kicked him in the gut, knocking him onto his back. 

“Everything is clear now, I hope.” Sergey gently patted Rzhavyi’s cheek, and then wiped his bloody hand on Rzhavyi’s sweater. “I'm not going to coddle you anymore. You can go now. Take care of your friend, it looks like he’s under the weather. Report to us on Wednesday, and don't upset me again. You see what happens when I get upset.”

Rzhavyi spat in his face. Blednii responded immediately, slugging Rzhavyi’s cheekbone and then stomach. Rzhavyi bit his cheek, unable to breathe. His eyes filled with tears. The driver tossed him to the ground, and Rzhavyi almost fell face first into the pavement. Slipping on the ice, he knelt down next to Topor. 

He didn't care about the gangsters anymore. He grabbed Topor’s shoulders, holding him in place. Topor had almost managed to get to his feet, but red was blooming around the palm pressed to his white T-shirt.

“Fucking—stay still.” Rzhavyi’s throat closed up, worse than when the driver had strangled him. “Don’t move, you hear?”

Topor’s clenched Rzhavyi’s hand. Topor was breathing heavily and noisily; his lip was split and bleeding, and there was a cut across his cheek. He was watching the Gelik depart with intense hatred. If he had superpowers, he would have burned the car to a crisp. 

“Fucking cunts.”

The problem was that Topor wasn’t a superhero. The blood he was now losing was ordinary human blood. It oozed through his fingers and dripped onto the dirty snow. Rzhavyi swallowed and leveraged his free arm under Topor.

“We’ve gotta get out of the road.” He bit his lip, gently pulling Topor upwards. “Can you stand?”

Topor exhaled through clenched teeth. Walking the fucking three meters to the building’s entrance was obviously difficult for him. Rzhavyi opened the door, contorting himself so that it didn’t slam shut on them. He helped Topor across the threshold as he tripped on the iron door frame. Topor caught himself against the wall, leaving red handprints on the whitewash. 

After sitting him down on the stairs near the warm radiator, Rzhavyi, his hands shaking, searched his pockets and pulled out his mobile phone. 

“Hey,” Topor shifted, probably to prevent the steps from digging into his back. He exhaled painfully. “Fuck. Who are you gonna call? One sec, we’ll drive to the walk-in clinic. Just hold up, I need a second. Wait.”

“The fucking walk-in clinic?” Rzhavyi gripped the phone in his fist, bending over Topor and grabbing his shoulder. “We’ll take the car there? With you driving? Have you watched too many fucking movies? You’re about to…fuck.”

He stammered. Topor’s eyes had gone glassy and his face was now noticeably paler. His lips had almost turned blue, and sweat had broken out on his brow. Rzhavyi remembered how he’d fought with Topor here, two—no, three—months ago. Right here on this tiled flooring, when Topor had shoved gingerbread in his mouth instead of properly beating him up.

“Let me see.” Rzhavyi swallowed, saliva thick in his mouth. He touched Topor's slippery fingers. “Did you hear me? Let me take a look.”

Topor frowned, but didn't resist. Rzhavyi pulled his shirt up, barely holding himself together. Rzhavyi’s hands were shaking and his throat felt tight again. He had never been afraid for anyone like this before. His heart was pounding, and the damn lump in the middle of his throat wouldn’t budge. 

“They bruised you up again,” Topor said softly, with a sort of unhappy chuckle. “And everything had just healed. You looked beautiful, Senya.”

“Shut up,” Rzhavyi’s voice, embarrassingly, quivered. “Fuck, don’t talk to me.”

He clenched his teeth, looking at the wound in Topor’s side. It was a small lipless mouth, leaking blood. It wasn’t gushing, so they hadn’t nicked a vein, but who knew how deep the blade had gone. 

“Hey, don't tell me what to do.” The cut bled worse when Topor spoke. Rzhavyi quickly twisted the hem of Topor’s T-shirt, fashioning a compress over the wound. Topor groaned and jerked, clutching at his jacket and cursing through his teeth. 

“How bad is it?” He took a breath and leaned his head back against the brick wall. He obediently put pressure on the wet fabric of the compress when Rzhavyi moved his hand there. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

Rzhavyi had seen worse stuff before. He himself had been stabbed a couple of times. It had happened a year ago, but it had been a surface wound, just skin and muscle. There had been a lot of blood, but it’d healed quickly. [1] Topor’s injury was serious. He could have a perforated gut, or something else. And it was Rzhavyi’s fault.

“We're going to the hospital,” he said dully, unlocking his phone. “Stay lying down, don't move. And don't talk, okay?”

Topor's smile came out weak. Calling the ambulance, Rzhavyi thrust his rolled-up jacket under Topor’s head. He propped up Topor’s legs, which made Topor wince and clench his fingers into a fist.

“Does it hurt?” Rzhavyi didn’t know why he was asking. Cutting your finger hurt. After the initial shock, a stab wound to the gut made people cry out and call for their mommies. But Topor was stoic, gritting his teeth. Topor’s face was already covered in blood, but forgetting the cut on his cheek, he wiped his face.

“It fine,” he said forcefully, closing his eyes. “Only, my head is kinda spinning.”

The lighter that Rzhavyi pulled out of his pocket didn’t want to work. His finger slid on the wheel. Rzhavyi threw it on the floor, crumpling his unlit cigarette and throwing it toward the entrance. Cold winter wind howled through the cracks around the door.

“Why the hell did you get involved?” He couldn't help himself, turning to Topor. “I fucking told you not to. This isn’t like a TV show on Channel 1.” [2]

“I know it's not.” Topor rose up on his elbow before choking out a gasp and sinking back down. “So, what, I was just supposed to stay home? And then fucking search for what was left of you in construction sites and factories? What if that motherfucker stuck a knife in you? Do you think it would be any easier for me right now? Fuck.” He noisily sucked in a breath through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. He spoke faster, panting. “Senya, maybe I should take some pills? It’s not fine. It really fucking hurts.”

Rzhavyi wanted to say that Topor wouldn’t have to search for him—the gangsters wouldn’t have offed him. They needed him alive, which was probably worse. Perhaps they wanted him on principle. Maybe the sketchy Vladimir Leonidovich was obsessed with Rzhavyi and demanded that they fetch him at all costs, even if they had to drag him out from under the ground. Rzhavyi didn’t think it was likely—he didn’t think himself so clever that it was impossible to find a willing substitutie. He didn’t give a fuck about their motivations, the fact of the matter was that they were absolutely fixated on him. They wouldn’t give up now.

“Pills aren't going to help you right now.” Rzhavyi took Topor’s wet hand in his and squeezed it tightly. “You’re the one who decided to get involved, so just hold on.”

Topor’s eyes were hazy, and he wasn’t looking good. His gaze darted across Rzhavyi, not stopping to look at any one thing for long. Clasping Rzhavyi’s hand with trembling fingers, Topor wheezed out, “You ginger prick. The least you could say is thank you.”

“I'll say it when you’ve been discharged from the hospital.”

Topor's forehead was cold and sweaty. The red spot on his T-shirt has ceased growing, but he’d lost a lot of blood. Glancing at his phone, Rzhavyi bit his lip painfully. It hadn’t even been five minutes since he had called the ambulance. Topor’s whole body had begun to tremble. Rzhavyi wanted to grab a blanket from his apartment to cover Topor, but the moment Rzhavyi made to stand up, Topor immediately clutched his hand tightly and slurred an indistinct request for him not to go.

“Hey, I'm not leaving.” Rzhavyi pressed down on Topor’s shoulder, not allowing him to turn onto his side. Topor didn’t seem to hear him and began moving more erratically. Fresh blood flowed from under his hand, between his fingers. “Don’t move, I told you not to. Do you hear me?”

Topor didn't answer. He was lying down with his eyes closed, but his eyelids quivered. For a terrible second, Rzhavyi pictured the ambulance getting held up somewhere. He immediately dismissed the thought with an angry shake of his head. Pressing Topor’s palm more firmly to his wound, Rzhavyi bent over him and touched his forehead to Topor’s temple. 

“Topor, do you hear me?” He tried to breathe evenly. He was trying not to cry, but embarrassingly, tears formed in his eyes. “I'm here. Just don’t go anywhere. Okay? Renat? Do you hear me?”

Topor mumbled something in response. If Rzhavyi’s cell hadn't started ringing, he would have howled like a dog in the damn stairwell. 

The call was the ambulance, which hadn’t been held up. Opening the front door, Rzhavyi let in the paramedic, who quickly examined Topor and injected him with something, maybe a painkiller. Rzhavyi helped carry Topor to the ambulance. He seemed to come to his senses a little bit, but his legs weren’t moving well. His wound was freshly bandaged—with something not soaked in blood—and he was strapped to a gurney. Rzhavyi climbed into the ambulance after him, telling the paramedic that he would be travelling with them to the hospital. The paramedic shrugged indifferently and slammed the door. 

The siren wailed and the lights flashed blue. The driver almost immediately turned it off because the road was empty. The inside of the ambulance smelled like medicine and looked so shabby that it probably should have been retired twenty years ago, but hadn’t been.

“How are you?” Rzhavyi stretched out his hand and gently touched Topor’s curly hair. He brushed it back with short strokes, neatening the strands that had stuck to his sweaty forehead. “Better?”

“Sort of.” Topor smiled, licking his dry lips. “Well, now I won't die for sure.”

“Moron.” Rzhavyi would have hit him, but you didn’t hit a man when he was down. “Don’t even think about it.”

There were napkins and a vial of peroxide on the shelf to his right, in an iron tray. Rzhavyi wetted one—he had nothing else to do anyway—and began rubbing the dried blood off of Topor’s face. 

“You should put cream or something on your own face instead.” Topor glanced down and somehow looked embarrassed. “How will we kiss now, huh? You’re all beaten up again.”

“It’ll heal.” Rzhavyi crumpled up the napkin and put it on the shelf. “It’s nothing.”

Topor didn't answer. He just smiled again, pressing his cheek to Rzhavyi's palm. That was how they reached the hospital: in silence, not saying a word, staring at each other. They didn’t let Rzhavyi go further than the waiting room. He intended to stay the night in the chairs there, but the tired and grumpy receptionists strongly advised that he sleep at home, and could then bring documents and clean clothing for the patient in the morning. 

She was technically right, but Rzhavyi wouldn't have been Rzhavyi if he hadn’t waited for Topor to be sewn up. He managed to get information out of the doctor, who told him that the wound was not serious, that the knife had missed any organs, and that Topor was incredibly lucky. The doctor hadn’t let him into the ward though, seemingly strict about the rules.

Rzhavyi arrived home in the dead of night. He had just enough strength to pull off his clothing and wash up. Tossing around on the sofa, he lay on his back. His sides and stomach were aching from the beating, and the painkillers he’d taken hadn’t kicked in yet.

He wasn’t able to sleep. When Rzhavyi closed his eyes, all he saw was Blednii’s face twisted in anger, the bloody knife in his hand, Topor lying on the dirty ground. He thought about complying and doing whatever the gangsters wanted him to, but it was clear that it wouldn't be a one-off, and that anything they wanted him to do could be found described in the Criminal Code. If he screwed up, there was no guarantee that they would only punish him. If he continued to run, Blednii might have a gun next time instead of a knife.

For the most part, Rzhavyi, didn't give a shit about himself. 

But he cared about Topor. And his mother. 

She may not have loved him, but he had to take responsibility for his fuck-ups. Rzhavyi wasn't even going to let the shit he'd gotten into affect his father. 

He lay there staring at the ceiling until morning. Wednesday was soon. He had two days. Rzhavyi knew what he had to do, and he had to do it as soon as possible. Maybe even right now.

He needed to throw some clothes into a bag, withdraw his money from the bank, and buy a ticket on the next train out of town, no matter where it was headed. The only thing that mattered was to get as far away as possible. Get out of town and make sure no one knew where he was going. “No man, no problem,” right? [3] He’d figure out the rest from there. What came next was unimportant. 

He sat in the kitchen, waiting until it would be time to catch the first bus. He stared at one point on the wall, not paying attention to his parents. He didn't even hear what they were saying. The topic of conversation was clear enough anyway: Rzhavyi had gotten himself beaten up, he deserved it, who knew where he ended up, he fought worse than a girl, which was apparent as his face was a mess.

Topor had shoved his keys into Rzhavyi’s hands before he’d been taken away to be stitched up, and Rzhavyi grabbed him a T-shirt, sweatpants, and a warm, fleecy hoodie. He shoved it all into a sports bag alongside Topor’s passport, toothbrush, and towel.

Because he couldn’t leave without seeing Topor one last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] it'd healed quickly - In Russian the expression is "healed like a dog"
> 
> [2] Channel 1 - A TV channel in Russia with popular entertainment for "regular people," complete with shows about manly heroes that can beat up ten bad guys at once and save the damsel in distress. It is a relatively pro-state channel.
> 
> [3] No man, no problem - A Russian expression, reportedly used by Stalin. Rzhavyi is being flippant about his own life here, as the expression means "if we kill him, he won't be a problem." He's referring to his own disappearance.


	15. Rzhavyi

Rzhavyi was at the garage until noon, but he wasn’t actually working—he stared blankly at the computer monitor and then at phone screens. Rodionov was feeling chatty.

“I have to take my family to Egypt in May.” He was picking between his teeth with a fingernail while doing paperwork. “My wife kept fucking nagging me about it. She said ‘I wanna go to the seaside, I don’t care how you manage it.’ Fuck, she’s already bought herself swimsuits. I said to her, ‘you won’t like it, you’ll fucking jump into the sea and flood the nearest city.’ She got offended and didn’t talk to me for two days. She still doesn’t let me into bed.”

“What did you expect?” Rzhavyi asked him. “You called her fat.”

Rzhavyi thought about how Topor might get back together with Kate after he fled. Topor would race his car and hang out with his friends and sister. Then he'd get married, and everything would be fine. Just like it was for normal people, not like it would have been with Rzhavyi. Topor couldn’t have a life with him. Rzhavyi was already deep in shit over his head, and now Topor was in the hospital instead of him.

“I wasn’t thinking!” Rodionov sighed and picked up the next piece of paperwork. “I still love her, that bitch, even though soon she won't fit through the door.”

Rzhavyi nodded and flinched his hand away—he’d burned himself on the soldering iron. A blister immediately formed on the reddened skin of his finger and he put it in his mouth. He sucked on it and frowned—it burned so badly that he wanted to stick it in the freezer. He had an hour until visitors were allowed into the hospital, and he wasn’t going to return to the garage. Rzhavyi said goodbye to Rodionov and looked around the room—he didn’t have anything to take with him, except maybe some Rollon instant noodle packets on the shelves. Rzhavyi didn’t keep any personal items here, and all of his belongings would fit in the same bag as Topor’s.

He managed to get to the bus stop at Ofitserskaya street right before the minibus arrived. It was half empty. Rzhavyi sat down in the front row with his back to the driver, staring out the window. He was startled when a squeaky old woman's voice rang out.

“What happened, sweetheart?”

The old lady sitting opposite him was the same one he’d seen before—it seemed like ages ago—back when everything was simple. He had just been flipping stolen phones and starting fights with anyone. Back then he hadn’t gone to the hospital with a heart so heavy it was hard to breathe.

“Nothing.” Rzhavyi ran his hand through his hair and went back to staring out the window. “I tripped.”

In the pale, fuzzy reflection of the glass, he saw the grandma shake her head.

“Where are you going?” She was being nosy, but Rzhavyi had too much building up inside him to keep quiet or lie. What difference would it make anyway? He wouldn't see this woman again, and she was unlikely to snitch on him to the gangsters.

“I’m going to the hospital,” he replied. “To see a friend.”

The old lady folded her little wrinkled hands over her patterned bag. Her hat was similarly colorful, a dark pink knit. Her eyes peered out from behind thick lenses that looked like two round pennies.

”You don’t say. The two of you tripped together, then?”

Rzhavyi nodded. His stop was coming up. It looked like the old lady would stay on the bus. Where did she even live if she was traversing across the whole damn city?

“I wish him good health, your friend,” the old lady looked mournfully at Rzhavyi's split knuckles and his beaten up face. “You take care of him. And, sweetheart, take care of yourself too. It’s not good to trip so often.”

The minibus rolled up to the hospital. Throwing Topor’s bag over his shoulder, Rzhavyi climbed out onto the street and ran along the snow-covered sidewalk to the hospital gate. He wasn’t late, he was even early, but he was still in a hurry to see Topor as soon as he could.

There were two other patients in Topor’s room. Both had very conveniently dozed off, but Topor wasn’t sleeping. He turned his head to look when Rzhavyi entered the room, and smiled happily. The grin came out a little crooked, as the long cut across his cheek was covered in bandages.

Rzhavyi stood at the head of the bed—there was nowhere to sit. The only potential spot was the nightstand, but Rzhavyi decided it would be better to place the bag there.

”I brought you some clothes.” He briefly stroked Topor's injured knuckles, and Topor opened his hand and squeezed Rzhavyi’s fingers in his own, hastily glancing toward the door. “And your passport. There’s some other stuff. A brush. A towel. Your phone.”

Topor’s hair had been gathered into a short ponytail with a girl’s scrunchie and sprinkled with glitter. Rzhavyi stared at it. The ponytail suited Topor, which was a weird thing to realize. The girl's hair elastic confused Rzhavyi.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Huh?” Topor raised his eyebrows, apparently not understanding immediately, before feeling the crazy scrunchie on his head. “Oh. Well, my hair was in the way. I borrowed it from the nurse. Why? Do you like it?”

“Yeah. You look like a moron.”

“You’re just jealous,” Topor dismissed, smiling again. “You must want one if you're that angry.”

He had transparent IV tubing sticking out of his arm. Rzhavyi couldn’t see what was happening with his stomach—Topor was partially reclined in the bed, covered with a blanket. If he was conscious and no longer in intensive care—and was even able to borrow a hair elastic from the nurses—it must mean that the injury wasn’t too severe.

Rzhavyi still asked, “What did the doctor say?”

“Nothing much.” Topor shrugged and didn't allow Rzhavyi to withdraw his hand, grasping it more firmly. “I’m already fucking sick of liying down. Let's at least walk in the corridor? I've got this IV shit on wheels, I can take it with me.”

”Are you allowed to get up?” Rzhavyi asked doubtfully.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Topor sat up straight and frowned as he threw back the blanket. “Give me my stuff. Look what they dressed me in, huh? Isn’t it fucking beautiful?”

The scene looked like it should be something out of Rzhavyi’s craziest dream: Topor concentrating on tucking his hospital gown into the sweatpants he was pulling on. The gown was blue and patterned with small dots, that shiny scrunchie on his head. One more ridiculous thing in the room and Rzhavyi could wake up, breathe a sigh of relief, and laugh at the nonsense his head came up with. He would hug Topor, who would be snoring nearby, nuzzle his head into Topor’s shoulder and doze off again. Maybe he would kiss Topor first. And Topor wouldn't be holding onto Rzhavyi’s hand and the IV stand. Rzhavyi wouldn't have to tell Topor that he had to leave.

“The pigs came to visit.” The corridor was long and painted green. Topor went serious and held on to Rzhavyi harder. “I lied. I said that I didn’t see the guy’s face, that it was dark, and that I had no idea who did it. Like it was some drunk asshole who wanted something from me. If they call you in, you know what to say, don't you?”

“I know,” Rzhavyi nodded, supporting Topor to make it easier for him to walk. “They won't. They have so many cold cases there, the office must be freezing.”

“Well, the cops won't help us, that's for sure,” Topor spoke more quietly, leaning closer to Rzhavyi, “What are we gonna do, Senya? How about we get out of town for a couple of weeks? We can stay at my cottage. [1] It’s warm and winter-proofed. You know where Zadelnoe is, don't you? They won't go there. They’ll find someone else. We can stay there a while. I have some money, I'll put new plates on the car. What do you think, huh?”

“And then what? They won't stop.”

”Are you one-hundred percent sure of that?”

Topor cursed—the IV stand got caught on a gurney, which was stuck between doors. Rzhavyi prevented Topor from bending over with a hand on his shoulder. Squatting, Rzhavyi dislodged the stand himself. He hadn’t imagined that talking would be easy, but he hadn’t known it would be this hard. The words stuck in his throat. Rzhavyi ran them over in his mind, but he couldn't voice anything. He couldn't even look Topor in the eye.

“I’m sure.” He helped Topor walk around the gurney, and then paused before saying in one breath, “I’ll leave alone.”

“What?” Topor froze in the middle of the corridor, rooted to the spot. He scowled at Rzhavyi, his head tilted. He had dark circles under his eyes, and the edge of the bandage on his cheek had begun to peel off, revealing a cut that was swollen and smeared with green antiseptic. [2]

“Where are you going to go?”

“I don’t know.” Rzhavyi bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to speak. “To Saratov. Or to Nizhny Novgorod. Somewhere. Far away. It doesn't matter.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Topor asked him. Rzhavyi saw him clench the iron IV stand in his fist, leaning into it. “And what are you gonna do there alone? Register yourself at an apartment with twenty Tajiks? [3] Where will you live? And where are you gonna work? What did you fucking tell me about running away like a fucking dog? Now you are just going to throw everything away and get the fuck out of town? What’s with the double standard, Senya?”

“I’m not Senya,” Rzhavyi interrupted, but Topor wasn’t having it.

“You may not see yourself as Senya,” he said gruffly, “but you are not Rzhavyi to me, got it? So you’ve made up your mind then? Why did you even come here?”

“To say goodbye,” Rzhavyi answered dully.

Topor snorted. He paused, his heavy gaze drilling into Rzhavyi. A man on crutches hobbled past, a nurse hurried after him. Patients and their visitors sat in chairs along the hallway, and some girl was complaining loudly about the terrible lunch of meat patties and tasteless mashed potatoes. Topor turned away. Without saying anything, he walked away, pushing the IV stand. Rzhavyi clenched his fists and watched Topor’s retreating back. Topor stopped halfway down the hallway, braced his hand against the wall, and lowered his head. Did he not get it? Did he think that Rzhavyi had just dumped him to save his own ass?

To hell with him then, if he had such a fucking low opinion of Rzhavyi. Let him think what he wanted. Maybe it would be easier for him to think that Rzhavyi was a coward—he’d get over him faster.

The only thing was that the exit was in Topor’s direction. Rzhavyi wanted to wait for him to go back to his room, but instead Topor took a couple more steps and then sat down awkwardly on the nearest chair. He gently pressed his hand to his stomach.

Another nurse went running past and didn't even think to stop.

“Let me help.” Rzhavyi laid his hand on Topor’s shoulder. He felt like he’d been gutted, and he thought he was going to throw up. He was either going to run away, or cling to Topor and never let him go—ever, not even if they cut off his hands.

“Don’t.” Topor didn't even look at him, he just twisted his shoulder out of Rzhavyi’s grip. Rzhavyi stepped back and stood there, looking at Topor’s dark hair as he stared at his own feet in flip-flops, breathing heavily. Rzhavyi should leave, but once again failed to do so. He wiped his damp palms on his sweatpants and sat down next to Topor, shoulder to shoulder, almost pressing his knee to Topor’s thigh.

“I don’t want to put you in danger again.” Rzhavyi clasped his fingers together, splitting open a cut on his barely healed knuckles. “They could track me down, and if you’re with me...” he exhaled through his teeth, picking at a fresh scab with his fingernail until it bled. “If something happened to you, I would never forgive myself, you understand?”

“I won't forgive you for running either,” Topor said dryly, not looking at Rzhavyi. “Do what you want, Rzhavyi.”

Rzhavyi didn't know how to respond. He was never one to be at a loss for words, but now he had nothing. It seemed like he’d forgotten how to talk entirely. Topor had already stood up, and without turning around he walked back into his hospital room with the IV stand.

Rzhavyi didn't follow him. Topor didn't understand—even though Rzhavyi had explained it to him, Topor had twisted everything and blamed it on Rzhavyi. On the way to the bus stop, Rzhavyi remembered Topor’s story about his mom—she probably hadn’t meant any harm. Had Topor painted himself as the victim? Was he doing the same now with Rzhavyi?

But what if Topor was right? Maybe it would have been better to ask him to come with—but it wouldn’t have fucking mattered. Topor couldn’t have jumped on a fucking train out of town with his stomach all patched up. What kind of choice was that?

Sniffling and annoyed, Rzhavyi kicked at a piece of ice near his foot. Did Topor think it was easy for him to make this decision? It wasn’t the first time Topor had run off somewhere and fucking abandoned his previous life. Why didn’t he understand?

On the bus, Rzhavyi suddenly wanted to go back to the hospital. He wanted to explain everything to Topor again, so that he wouldn't misinterpret anything, so that—so that he would what? Had Topor not figured it out for himself? It wasn’t Rzhavyi’s job to spell it out for him.

Rzhavyi’s insides were all twisted up. He was angry with himself again, and with Topor, and with all the other shit spinning around in his head. At the bank, the fucking stupid commemorative coins were staring at him through the glass partition, as if they were mocking him, saying “ _Well, where do you want to go? To Penza? To Nizhny Novgorod? To Vladivostok? A bridge, a temple—just choose one.”_ Rzhavyi didn't want to choose anything. At the train station he bought a ticket on the next train out of town, the first one with an available spot. [4]

The train was going to Nizhny Novgorod. Rzhavyi had never travelled that far in his life. It was probably even colder there. He shoved his woolen socks into his backpack, zipped it up and sat down on the sofa. There was nothing to do until morning. He only needed to switch his SIM card, but that wouldn’t take more than a minute. Rzhavyi had already bought a new one. 

When he removed the back panel of his phone, it briefly vibrated in his palm. Rzhavyi turned it over to look at the display, and found a message from Topor.

“ _ call from your new one _ ”

Rzhavyi didn’t want to talk in front of his mother, who was sitting right there watching TV, or in front of his father, who was preparing to leave for his shift. He put on his jacket and went out into the stairwell, closing the door firmly behind him.

“You didn't leave yet?” Topor didn't bother to say hello.

“No, I didn’t.”

“I see,” Topor exhaled into the phone, and then launched into a speech that would have made it impossible for Rzhavyi to get a word in, even if he wanted to. “Listen to me, and don’t interrupt, got it? Tomorrow you’re going to take the train to Moscow. Kate will bring you your ticket tonight around ten o'clock. There won’t be anyone to greet your there, but you'll figure it out, since you're so fucking independent. I’ll send you the address now. My mother knows who you are and what to do with you. She will get your registration and work figured out, and help you find a place to live. I don’t give a fuck what you think of this plan. If you don’t get on that fucking train, I will find you myself and bury you where no one will find your body, do you understand?”

He fell silent just as abruptly as he began speaking. There wasn’t any sound coming from the phone. Rzhavyi stared blankly out the window into the dark courtyard. Near the garages, Topor’s car was covered with snow. Without thinking, he asked the first question that occurred to him. “You called your mother?”

“That’s  _ all _ you want to ask?” Topor's voice sounded very angry.

Rzhavyi hoped that he wouldn't break anything at the hospital: his IV drip, his bed, or his roommate's leg. Rzhavyi had a lot of questions, but none of them made sense and he kept them to himself.

“I’m not going to your mother,” he said, clutching his phone in his fingers. “I don’t need your help, damn it.”

“What did I tell you?” snarled Topor. “I don’t fucking care what do you think. Because of you I’ve been pissing myself all day, and then I ate cabbage stew mixed with fucking Vaseline so that I’ll shit like butter. Now you’ve decided to be a hero? Should I be forever grateful to you for dumping me here, you asshole? It won’t fucking work, Senya. I didn’t jump in front of that knife so that you could fuck off to who knows where.”

“I didn’t ask you to protect me,” Rzhavyi interrupted. “And don’t fucking blame this on me. Don’t. You want to be the martyr here. What, do you think I don’t get it? And have you thought about your mother? What lie did you tell her about me?”

“You’re a fucking asshole,” the phone barked roughly, “an ungrateful asshole.”

“And you’re a fucking dick.” Rzhavyi slapped his palm down on the window sill, barely restraining himself from launching into a string of obscenities. “You're only thinking about yourself. She's waiting for you—her son—and you decided to send me instead? Have you ever thought about what I’d tell her when she asks about you, you prick?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Topor was outraged. “What you tell her is your problem. I found a contact for you, so you can get the fuck off my back.”

Rzhavyi yelled. He yelled so loudly that his voice reached the fifth floor and echoed back to him. “What?! Are you out of your fucking mind? What the fuck do you mean with that shit? You made fucking contact with your mom, who is ready to deal with whoever the fuck you ask, as long as you call her again? Arrange your own fucking imaginary contacts, you fucking bitch!” 

“Go fuck yourself!” Topor was also tearing up his throat. Rzhavyi had no idea how he hadn’t been sedated already. “You fucking faggot! You’ve got a pretty face, but inside you’re full of shit!”

“Takes one to know one, you fucking faggot!” Rzhavyi took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying not to pay attention to the fact that his head was pounding in anger. “Why are you getting so worked up? Lie in the bed and fucking pee silently into your bedpan. You were the one who wanted to get into my pants. I didn't promise to take orders from you or blindly do whatever you asked. I'm not going to fucking Moscow, got it? If you don’t even want to go there, then why are you sending me?” 

“You didn’t like it then? You didn’t seem to have any complaints when I was getting in your pants.” Topor apparently remembered that he was surrounded by other men with injuries, and lowered his voice to a whisper. Rzhavyi had to press the phone to his ear to listen. “You want it. Are you going to deny that? I just needed to touch you with one finger and you were out of your mind. I could have done whatever I wanted to you.”

“Don’t change the subject.” Topor, the prick, wasn’t lying. He didn’t even have to touch Rzhavyi to turn him on. Just the thought of how Topor touched him, how he’d pushed his hand under the waistband of Rzhavyi’s sweatpants was enough. “And don’t try to dodge my questions.”

“You don't get it, do you?” Topor asked him. “Do you think I’d ask my mom for something if it was just for me? I don't care what she thinks. The important thing is that I’d know you were okay. They wouldn’t look for you in Moscow. It’s far. Full of people. The gangsters in Moscow are more serious. They won't come after you.”

Topor wasn’t mad and screaming anymore. Maybe he’d actually been sedated. Or maybe he’d flipped from berserk mode to normal mode by himself. Someone had moved a worn-out armchair into the stairwell five years ago, and Rzhavyi leaned his thigh against it. He brushed his disheveled hair back off his forehead and looked at his reflection in the window. He looked pale, with a split lip and red hair that stuck out like straw. Topor gave lousy advice, but he was making sense. Or Rzhavyi just really wanted to find a place where Vladimir Leonidovich’s minions wouldn't reach him. If Topor was right, then maybe he didn’t need to burn all his bridges.

“I’ll tell you again, your plan is fucking shitty, Renat.” Turning away, Rzhavyi picked at the flaking paint on the window frame with his fingernail. He bit his lip painfully, and then, even though he was terrified he’d regret it, he said, “Let's go together, huh?”

He waited for Topor to start yelling again, to curse him out and call him a fucking indecisive prick—but Topor was silent. Rzhavyi even thought that the call had dropped. He anxiously spoke into the phone, “Hello?”

“I am fucking still here,” angrily answered Topor. “Did you change your mind, or what? Now you want to leave with me?”

Rzhavyi didn't lie, and he didn’t try to explain everything to Topor again. He only said, “Yes.”

Rzhavyi nervously fiddled with the window handle.

“I haven't changed my mind about forgiving you, Senya. Go fuck youself.”

“Do you always tell people to go fuck themselves when they worry about you?” The jammed window handle gave way, creaking as it turned under Rzhavyi's hand, sprinkling flakes of paint onto the sill. “Did you say that to your mom when she wanted the best for you?”

“Watch yourself,” Topor warned him, but Rzhavyi didn’t want to listen to anything anymore.

“And don’t fucking insult me. You don’t want to go, because what, you’re scared to look your momma in the eyes? Just admit it! You can shove your forgiveness up your ass, along with that Vaseline, got it?”

“You’ll shove Vaseline up your own fucking ass,” Topor’s voice had become low and harsh. “When the mob bends you over.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Rzhavyi hung up, not intending to wait for an answer. Squeezing the mobile phone until the plastic panels creaked, he rested his fists on the window sill. He stood like that, head down, for about a minute, before hearing the click of a lock from down below, on the first floor.

But no one had exited any of the apartments.

Rzhavyi was starving. Returning home, he made himself a sandwich in the kitchen. He paired mayo with stale bologna. There was a bottle of  _ Baltica _ in the fridge door. Tasting and smelling nothing, he bit off half the sandwich in one go and washed it down with the beer.

His father was sitting at the table, silently watching him with a heavy gaze. Rzhavyi didn't ask what was bothering him this time. Maybe he didn’t like the way Rzhavyi ate sandwiches, or drank beer, or the fact that he walked around the apartment, breathing and existing.

“You’re going to Moscow?”

Rzhavyi swallowed the chunk of sandwich. His father looked at him, his mouth twisted. The wrinkles on his face were deeper than normal. Before Rzhavyi's mother, he’d had two other wives. He’d had children with them. The eldest was already over thirty, and that was all Rzhavyi knew. His father didn't communicate with them.

“No,” Rzhavyi replied, “and it’s none of your business.”

So the click he’d heard in the stairwell was their apartment door. There was no other way for his father to find out about Moscow. He’d probably come out when he’d heard the screaming and overheard. He could go fuck himself too. Rzhavyi was leaving anyway.

“It would be the perfect place for you.” His father sipped his beer and rubbed at his red and grey beard with his fist. “There are a lot of people like you there.”

“What kind of ‘people like me?’” Rzhavyi gritted his teeth. It was the same question as before, only now he was the one asking it, not Topor.

His father’s face twisted further. He spat out a herring bone onto the newspaper on the table and answered with disgust in his voice. “I don’t want a trace of you left behind, you understand? If I come back from my shift tomorrow and you’re still here, I'll fucking strangle you myself.”

In the living room, a woman on TV screamed and then began to moan like a whale. His father clenched his hands into fists. They were big and rough—Rzhavyi hadn’t inherited them—his face had turned red, and his forehead was sweating. Rzhavyi watched him in silence. The thought occurred to him that if he’d had such a wide, scary, and crooked face, Topor wouldn't have fallen for him. And Rzhavyi would instead be rolling around on the asphalt with him trying to land a punch. If that Topor had told Rzhavyi that he’d be fucked in the ass by gangsters, Rzhavyi would have kicked his teeth in. And Rzhavyi wouldn't feel hurt. Or at least, not this badly.

“I understand,” said Rzhavyi, finishing his sandwich.

“Don’t you dare come back here.” His father tore the head off his herring, separating the flesh from the bones. He was no longer looking at Rzhavyi. “Fucking faggot. How could God endure filth like you.”

There was some sort of drama happening on the TV now. Someone had been accused of cheating, and judging by the sound, they were smashing dishes. Rzhavyi sat there, clutching his bottle of  _ Baltica _ in his hand, watching his father tear up his fish. He only wanted one thing: for morning to come and for his train to arrive at the station, so that Rzhavyi could leave here. Forever.

“God’s task is to endure.” Rzhavyi rose to his feet and left the beer on the table. He couldn’t drink any more. “And to forgive.”

“He won't forgive you,” his father told him. “Don’t even hope for that, you cunt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Footnotes:_  
>   
>  [1] cottage - Dacha, summer house. A house that belongs to the family, in 99% it has garden where the whole family is forced (by one very active member of the family, probably grandmom) to garden together. Families go there during weekends in summer. More often than not it was built by family members, and it's constantly under renovation. It can be anything from a cabin without an indoors bathroom to a small villa. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dacha [ return to text ]
> 
>   
> [2] green antiseptic - Russian antiseptic is commonly a brilliant green color that stains your skin. It is also found in bandaids. [ return to text ]
> 
>   
> [3] "Register yourself at an apartment with twenty Tajiks?" -   
> In Russia, in order to access services (medical care for example) or be hired for a legitimate job, you need to be registered in the city where you live. There are, however, many ways around this. Despite laws and potential penalties, many people are not registered at their real address for a variety of reasons. It is possible to (illegally) pay a small sum to be registered at a random apartment--hence the reference here to twenty Tajiks living at one address.
> 
> You are supposed to keep your registration on you. Police can ask to see your documentation at any time, however, if you are white (or female) and look Russian, chances are you will not be asked. [ return to text ]
> 
>   
> [4] first (train) with an available spot - similar to seat. but because most of the trains took a lot of hours to get to your destination, and because there are lot of night trains they have 'shelf' = beds. it looks like a shelf:  
> http://mignews.com.ua/modules/news/images/articles/changing/22316889-ne-opyat-a-snova-v-poezde-ukrzaliznyci-.jpg  
>  [ return to text ]


	16. The “Ural” М-5

Kate arrived before midnight. Rzhavyi looked through the peephole before opening the door—she was shining like an aluminum air duct yet again.

“Take it.” She handed Rzhavyi a folded piece of paper with a train ticket sticking out of it. “What’s this all about, huh?”

“Nothing.” Rzhavyi stuck his hands in his sweatpants pockets and shifted his gaze from the ticket to Kate’s face. “I won't take it.”

“Dammit, listen, Senya—” she snapped. She then sighed and spoke more calmly. “Fine. Just take the ticket, ok? I don’t want to hear Renat complain that I didn’t force it on you.”

“Then throw it away,” Rzhavyi replied, “and tell him you gave it to me. I'm not going there anyway.”

“Look at you fuckers,” Kate said expressively. She shifted the paper in her grip, and out of a small purse hanging on a long chain, she pulled out a cigarette and lighter. “One of you calls me and says, ‘fuck, drop everything Katyukha, [1] and hurry to the train station to buy a ticket! It’s urgent!’ Then the second one doesn’t need shit, apparently. Will you at least explain to me why I'm running around town instead of going about my business?”

“Why do you even listen to him?” frowned Rzhavyi. “You could have told him to fuck off and not gone anywhere.”

Kate snorted loudly. She was having trouble lighting her cigarette, hindered by the ticket in one hand and her long, sharp nails. She probably used the latter to inflict bodily harm on whoever got in her way.

“As if. If I told him that, he would go berserk. She almost dropped the lighter and glared at Rzhavyi. “What are you staring at? Here, hold this, it’s the least you can do. A lady is fucking suffering right in front of you.”

She slipped the fucking ticket to Rzhavyi.

“You won't tell me, will you?”

Kate had unusually fancy cigarettes—thin and long. And it seemed like she wasn’t in a hurry to leave. 

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Rzhavyi unfolded the paper. Written on the back was an address in Moscow—Prospekt Mira metro station, a street and building number. And there was the name of Topor’s mother, Elena Anatolyevna. Topor's handwriting was wide, but surprisingly neat. Only a few of the letters were skewed, as if Topor suddenly went berserk and pushed them out of line.

“I see,” Kate exhaled smoke thoughtfully and flicked ash down the stairs. “Did he throw shit at you and then stand there all pretty in a white coat?” [2]

Rzhavyi’s passport number was written on the ticket. So Topor had found it out somehow? Did he remember it from when he’d snuck a look at Rzhavyi’s ID in the emergency room? Or did he have friends that could get it for him?

“Are you here to give me advice? Or are you just curious?”

“Do you need advice?” she asked.

Rzhavyi shrugged.

“It’s terribly uncomfortable to fuck in his car,” Kate made eye contact with Rzhavyi and smiled cheerfully, seemingly unembarrassed. “But it’s fucking turns him on. Does that count as advice?”

Rzhavyi blinked, wondering if he had misheard. With that mouth on her, it would have been better if Kate held her tongue. She obviously had no plans to, or was maybe incapable.

“Fucking terrific advice,” Rzhavyi glanced down, watching the sharp toe of Kate’s shiny boot as it ground out her cigarette. He smiled too. “Yeah, that counts.”

“Anytime,” Kate winked and rummaged around in her purse. She fished out a mobile phone and looked at the screen. “I have to go now. I'll see you around.”

“I don't think you will,” Rzhavyi hugged her, clenching the ticket in his fist. “I leave in the morning.”

“If you say so,” said Kate. “Well then, safe travels, Arseny.”

Inside the apartment, Rzhavyi sat on the couch and looked at the ticket for a long time. He had an almost identical one tucked into his passport, to another city at a different time. The hands of the clock hanging opposite passed midnight. He ripped the ticket to Moscow in half. And then into quarters. He kept going until the paper stopped tearing under the fingers, the scraps tiny.

Rzhavyi slept poorly again. He woke up at four in the morning and lay there with his eyes closed until seven. Time passed unbearably slowly. At eight, he heard his mother enter the kitchen, and then the sound of dishes. Rzhavyi dressed hurriedly and grabbed his bag, shouting to her to close the door behind him.

“Your father said you were leaving.”

Rzhavyi halted on the threshold of the apartment, turning around. In the darkness of the hallway his mother almost melted into the walls. Her flowery yellow robe matched the wallpaper and her hair was gathered in a bun, seeming lighter than her face. She slung a kitchen towel over her shoulder. Rzhavyi remembered how she had drunkenly yelled at his father about not wanting to give birth at seventeen. When his father had taken off—slamming the door behind him—she’d turned on Rzhavyi. He sat there quietly, his nose buried in his notebook as she screamed. That was how Rzhavyi found out that he had ruined her life, that she’d almost died as he came out of her, that because of him she hadn't gone to college and had lost her youth changing shitty diapers.

“I'm leaving.” He straightened the heavy bag on his shoulder, looking into his mother's tired and unhappy eyes. “For good.”

She silently pursed her lips. She yelled at Rzhavyi’s retreating back as he ran down the stairs, “At least call me!”

Rzhavyi didn't turn around. He only squeezed the wooden handle of the iron front door and took a deep breath. In spite of it all, he answered her.

“I will.” Pushing the door open, he stepped out into the cold, dark courtyard.

“Senya!” He hadn’t even taken ten steps when he heard a familiar voice call out from behind him.

Topor was in the hospital, he couldn’t possibly be here, but Rzhavyi wasn’t imagining it: there was a car parked by the door behind him. He hadn’t even noticed it. A shaggy head of hair in a blue hat was sticking out of the driver’s window.

Rzhavyi shook his head angrily and sped up, hearing the engine behind him. The car rolled along, lighting his path with its headlights.

“Fuck, will you stop?” Topor’s voice rang out around the courtyard, and then he began honking his horn like he’d lost his damn mind. “Senya! Shit!”

Rzhavyi turned around. He slammed his fist on the hood of the car, cursed, and walked around to stand in front of Topor’s door.

“What in god’s fucking name are you doing?” He bent over to look at Topor and his bag slid off his shoulder into the dirty slush. “What are you doing here? Why are you honking at me, you prick? Do you want the whole courtyard to know that I'm hauling ass?”

“If you don’t get in the car, I’ll put flyers up on every lamppost saying that you’ve gone to Nizhny Novgorod.” Topor thrust his hand out the window and grabbed Rzhavyi’s jacket, pulling him closer. “Come on already, get in. I’ll take you to the train station at least.”

Topor had removed the bandage from his face. Underneath was a strip of skin dyed green from the antiseptic, and a swollen cut across his tanned skin. Rzhavyi was itching to punch him in the face, but he couldn’t; Topor was looking at him with wild eyes, clutching at his jacket. His right hand, with IV tubing still sticking out of it, was poised over the horn in the center of the steering wheel.

“I'm getting in!” Rzhavyi grabbed at Topor’s fingers, tearing them away from his jacket. “Fuck! I wish you were dead!”

Not paying attention to what he was doing, he tossed his dirty, wet bag onto the back seat. He channeled all of his anger into shutting the back door, slamming it so hard that the car shook. He collapsed into the passenger seat next to Topor, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists.

“Alright.” Topor nodded, satisfied. He abruptly changed gears. “So it turns out you can behave like a normal person when you want to.”

“What the fuck?” Rzhavyi turned to look at him, jamming his seatbelt buckle into place on the third try. “You’re going to lecture me about ‘normal’? How did you find out that I was going to Nizhny Novgorod? How do you know my passport number? And what the fuck are you doing out of the fucking hospital? If your guts spill out of you now, I'm not going to save you, you prick. I'm gonna fucking leave you here in the car.”

Topor was smiling. Rzhavyi bent forward in his seat and clutched at his hair with both hands. His forehead pressed against the dashboard, Rzhavyi screamed long and hoarse, like a fucking animal. He finally slammed his fist into the glove compartment, which sprung open, spilling paper, CDs, manuals and fucking condoms across Rzhavyi’s legs.

“Which question should I answer first?” Topor asked.

“I don’t give a fuck. Don’t answer any of them for all I care.”

The things that had fallen out of the glove box weren’t fitting back in. Rzhavyi shoved at the folded paper and car insurance, tucking it in with the condoms. His gaze caught on three pale pink ID cards that he dragged out from under his sneakers.

All three featured photos of Topor.

“You said you’d either go to Saratov or Nizhny,” Topor said in a calm voice. “I looked at the train schedule. Katyukha told me that you were leaving in the morning.”

“That bitch,” Rzhavyi breathed.

The names on the IDs—driver licences—were all different. Rzhavyi reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a folded pink and blue vehicle registration document, covered in official seals and watermarks. He pulled out two more, each folded into quarters.

“You’re the bitch,” said Topor. “The train to Nizhny left in the morning. The one to Saratov leaves this evening.” 

The name on the registration matched those on the fake drivers licenses. The only consistency was the make and model of the car: “VAZ 2110,” Sedan, Black. Rzhavyi didn't need to ask: there was no doubt that Topor had a couple of fake passports to match.

“What next?” Without waiting for an answer, Topor continued answering Rzhavyi’s questions. “When I took you to the ER I took your passport, remember? A piece of paper fell out. We were in a rush so I put it in my pocket. I was going to give it back later, but I forgot. By the way, why do you need a copy of your passport inside your passport? Is it like a matryoshka doll or something?”

“A matri-fucking-yoshka, hah.” Rzhavyi slammed the glove compartment shut, with the fake licences inside.

They had already passed Leninsky avenue and Sverdlov street. They would reach the train station in about seven minutes, maybe less.

“And about my guts, well.” Topor scratched his face, cursing as he brushed against the cut. He put his hand back on the gear stick. “They’re not going anywhere. Take this fucking trash out of my arm, eh Senya? I look like an idiot.”

“I’m not taking anything out,” Rzhavyi told him. “When you go back to the hospital, they’ll just put it back in.”

“You ginger cow,” Topor let go of both the gear stick and the steering wheel, pulling off his bandages. “Hold the wheel, then.”

“You…fuck.” Rzhavyi choked indignantly, grabbing the leather-covered steering wheel. He squeezed it harder, righting the car in the lane. “You fucking asshole.” 

“You’re not any better.” Topor unwound the bandage on his arm, tearing open the knot with his teeth. He pulled the needle out of his arm just in time: the traffic light at the intersection turned red, and he had to change gears and slow down.

Rzhavyi didn't answer. He stared out at the road and was quiet for a long time. Topor didn't say anything either. The rusty iron pyramid of the AvtoVAZ car plant sped past them, as did the red-brick garages. [3] The train station lay ahead of them.

“Listen, Senya,” Topor said in a low voice. Rzhavyi’s insides twisted up, bunching sadly just below his heart. He turned to stare at Renat, trying to memorize the shape of his nose, his black curls, protruding ears, and every fucking mole on his face. “I went too far with that gangster thing yesterday. Well, the part about your asshole.”

The train station passed them on the right side.

“It’s behind us,” said Rzhavyi.

“Oh, that’s good,” Topor smiled. “Thank you, Senya.”

“What do you mean, ‘thank you’?” Rzhavyi nervously twisted in his seat and turned to look back over his shoulder. “We—fuck—we drove past the station!”

“Ah,” Topor sighed. “Does that mean you haven’t forgiven me?”

Rzhavyi couldn’t punch Topor—he was driving the car and they could fly into a ditch. Or his guts could spill out through his stitches, even though Topor said they wouldn't.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!!” Rzhavyi could barely restrain himself, clutching his seatbelt with both hands. “What did they drug you with? Do you even know what’s happening, Renat? I'm going to miss my fucking train!”

“What train?” asked Topor. ”I did probably take more painkillers than I should have, yes.”

“You're fucking shitting me.” Rzhavyi was speechless. “Turn around! Do you fucking hear me? Turn the car around!”

Topor was deaf—or at least pretending to be. He drove all the way along Borkovskaya Street and on the advance green he turned toward the Obvodnoye highway. 

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” Rzhavyi was ready to jump out of the moving vehicle. He even grabbed the door handle, but Topor locked all the doors and accelerated. The speedometer climbed to eighty, then to one hundred, and then to one twenty. Rzhavyi didn't dare jump out of the car at this speed—he wasn’t suicidal.

“Senya, you are not going to Nizhny Novgorod,” Topor stared intently at the road, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Then where the fuck am I going?” Rzhavyi leaned back in his seat. He covered his face with his hands—he was close to losing it, on the verge of hysterical laughter. The situation had gotten out of control. Unbelievable. Unreal.

“To Moscow,” Topor said. After a pause, he added, “with me.”

“You have—had—an IV sticking out of your hand,” Rzhavyi had no idea why he was speaking, but keeping silent felt stupid. “You still haven’t healed. And what about Reyhan? Or your dad? What if they track down your licence plate?”

“Senya,” Topor smiled like an insane man, “look in the back seat.”

Rzhavyi was dreaming. How else could he explain it? There were license plates on the back seat—Rzhavyi counted three of them. The right number to match the fake driver licences in the glove compartment. On top of the plates were cardboard boxes filled with medicine, bandages, beer bottles, and a pack of syringes.

And wrapped up in paper and multicolored ribbon was a bouquet of bright red roses.

Rzhavyi couldn't help himself. He laughed, bent over in half, not able to stop. He was breathless, tears streaming down his face. Of all the fucking things to add to this insane tableau, Topor turned on a completely wild Tatar song at full blast.

“Senya,” Topor patted him on the back, deaccelerating. Rzhavyi inhaled with difficulty, sitting up. “Sen, are you alright?”

Topor pulled over at a bus stop by the side of the road. He reached for Rzhavyi, cradling his head in both hands. Topor squeezed Rzhavyi’s face between his palms, beginning to stroke his cheeks and lips with his thumbs.

A Mongol descendant was screaming from the car speakers. The Mongols had eaten dried horse meat, but Topor looked like he would have much preferred to devour Rzhavyi instead.

Rzhavyi knocked Topor’s hat off his head and pulled him forward by his hair. Kissing him was painful because of his split lip, but Rzhavyi didn’t give a fuck.

And Topor—he was sure—felt the same way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0 - The "Ural" M-5 - the title of this chapter is the name of the interstate M-5. [wiki](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M5_highway_\(Russia\))
> 
>   
> 1 - Katyukha - Another version of Kate's name.[ return to text ]
> 
>   
> 2 - “Did he throw shit at you and then stand there all pretty in a white coat?” - Kate is referencing a meme here  
>   
> Translation: "You're all crazy and don't get help! I alone am smart, standing here looking beautiful in my white coat"  
> It means, you're all idiots, I'm the only normal one.[ return to text ]
> 
>   
> 3 - AvtoVAZ car plant - A picture of the car plant here:   
> [ return to text ]


End file.
